THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 


THE   MAN   ON 
HORSEBACK 


BY 

ACHMED  ABDULLAH 

Author  of  The  Trail  of  The  Beast" 


NEW   YORK 

THE  JAMES  A.  McCANN  COMPANY 
1919 


Copyright  1919,  by 

THE  JAMES  A.  McCANN  COMPANY 
All  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  in  the  U.S.  A 


» 


To 

Gene  Wick  and  J.  B.  Hawley 

best  of  literary  agents 

best  of  personal  friends 


3187b4 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTIK  PAGE 

I.  THE  YANKEE  DOODLE  GLORY  .    ,c  .  1 

II.  GOLD !"••>:.•  >  6 

III.  THE  UNKNOWN  METAL     .    :.    ^  ..,  10 

IV.  BERTHA  WEDEKIND      .     ..     .     >  .  18 
V.  THE  OFFER  .     .     ;'     .= "  ..,    .\>:  .  25 

VI.  GETTING  ON •  >v .  ...  30 

VII.  BARON  HORST  VON  GOTZ-WREDE  .  .  37 

yill.  THE  SECOND  OFFER     .     .     .     t.  .  42 

IX.  EASTWARD  Ho!  .     ..     .     .     .;    ;.:  .  52 

X.  THE  MEETING    ..    .....     >:  .  58 

XI.  THE  WIRELESS  .     .     .     .     .     .  .  68 

XII.  COLONEL  WEDEKIND     .:     .     >     >  ;.  74 

XIII.  BERLIN     .     1     .....    >:  .  79 

XIV.  THE  STRETCHING  OF  THE  WEB     .  .  86 
XV.  ANONYMOUS  .....     :.     ..  91 

XVI.  THE  HORSEMAN      .     .     .     ..     .  .  97 

XVII.  THE  OLD  WOMAN  SPEAKS     .     ..  .  107 

XVIII.  LORD  VYVYAN  SPEAKS  ...     .:  .  Ill 

XIX.  THE  VOICE  OF  BERLIN  .....  119 

XX.  WHAT  HAPPENED  BACK  HOME     .  .  124 

XXL  THE  TIGHTENING  OF  THE  WEB     .  .  134 

XXII.  HERR  LEUTNANT  GRAVES  .     .     .  .  139 

XXIII.  TRUEX      .........     .:     .  .  146 

XXIV.  ALL  DRESSED  UP 153 

XXV.  DER  DEUTSCHE  .  159 


CONTENTS 


XXVI. 

THE  ARMY   .     .    :.,    ,.-    ^    K    .     . 

167 

XXVII. 

THE  STATEMENT      .     ;.     :.j    L.j    K     . 

171 

XXVIII. 

HAMBURG-TACOMA  .     .-    >:    ffi    K     . 

180 

XXIX. 

PERSONA  NON  GRATA    A    L.j    w    w    L. 

185 

XXX. 

192 

XXXI. 

THE  INSULT  ....     .     ,.,    ^    ,.- 

202 

XXXII. 

THE  DUEL     .     .     .     .     .     w    w    L. 

207 

XXXIII. 

THE  NOOSE  IN  THE  WEB   .     w    w     . 

218 

XXXIV. 

BERTHA  SPEAKS       .     .     -.*    >;    w    ,. 

225 

XXXV. 

BACK  FIRE    .     .     .     .     t.     w    >:    ,. 

235 

XXXVI. 

SPANDAU  .     .     .     >:    ...    K    H    L..    > 

241 

XXXVII. 

VIEW-HALLOO     .     .     .     ^    >:    w     . 

251 

XXXVIII. 

THE  COLONEL'S  PROPOSAL      w    >:     . 

262 

XXXIX. 

B.  E.  D  •     L«J    w    K     • 

272 

XL. 

WAR!.     .     .     .     ..  .    k,    a    M    w    fc 

279 

XLL 

THE  MOB  SPEAKS  >    w    w    w    H    w 

294 

XLIL 

TOWARDS  THE  FRONTIER    .;    M    L.:     . 

303 

XLIII. 

METZ  ......     L.j    w    w    w    M 

314 

XLIV. 

THE  BLUFF  .     .     .;    -.]    w    w    w    >: 

323 

XLV. 

OVER  THE  BORDER  >-    w    M    w    M    w 

331 

THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 


The  Man  on  Horseback 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   YANKEE  DOODLE   GLORY 

LIKE  a  great,  shimmering  silver  horn  the  morning 
mist  swung  out  of  the  valley  and  Tom  Graves  swung 
along  with  it,  sitting  his  tough,  sinewy,  thirteen-hand 
pony  as  easily  as  a  lifetime  of  it  can  teach  a  man,  and 
lifting  the  mare  gently  with  knee  and  soft  word  and 
knowing  hand  when  ruts  or  slippery  timber  falls  cleft 
the  road  or  when  it  dipped  too  suddenly  into  rock- 
strewn  levels. 

Fourteen  miles  beyond,  an  hour  and  a  half's  ride  if 
the  pony  was  as  keen  as  the  man,  was  Woodf  ell,  a  one- 
horse,  one-man  homestead  of  drab,  slat-built  house, 
splintering,  zig-zag  fence,  rickety  corral,  and  a  brown, 
hopeless  blotch  of  illy  tilled  fields.  There  he  would 
stable  his  horse  with  "Swede"  Johnson,  the  squatter, 
pay  more  or  less  gracefully  that  flaxen-haired  individ 
ual's  habitual  overcharge  for  a  meal  consisting  of 
bread  mixed  in  the  flour  bag  and  baked  in  the  frying- 
pan,  inky,  boiled  coffee,  stringy  bacon  that  tasted  of 
fish,  and  rice  pudding  remarkable  for  its  shortcomings 
as  to  raisins,  and  resume  his  journey  on  foot  into  the 
Hoodoo  mining  district. 

Tom  Graves  was  easily  moved  to  laughter.     He 


2.  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

would  laugh,  at  other  psople  and  at  himself,  with  his 
mouth  that  was  wide  and  generous,  his  flashing,  even, 
white  teeth,  his  square  lighter's  chin,  his  nose  that, 
starting  in  a  haughty  Wellingtonian  curve,  finished 
disconcertingly  with  a  humorous  tilt  to  starboard.  He 
would  laugh  with  every  inch  of  his  muscular,  well-knit 
body,  with  his  very  hair  that  was  uncompromisingly 
bristly  and  as  uncompromisingly  red;  and  he  laughed 
now  as  he  said  to  himself  that  the  district  was  rightly 
named. 

The  Hoodoo!  The  evil,  lumpish  spirit  of  man's 
aspirations,  man's  hopes  and  faith ! 

Once  that  part  of  Idaho  had  been  famed  for  its  rich 
placer  claims  that  had  washed  every  day  into  the  thou 
sands  ;  then  a  misleading  and  glittering  outcropping  of 
gold-studded  quartz,  and  a  mad  wave  of  adventurers, 
Americans,  Canadians,  Englishmen,  Scots,  and  Scan 
dinavians,  surging  in  and  making  the  gaunt  hillsides 
ring  with  the  staccato  thud  of  pickaxe  and  the  dull, 
minatory  rumble  of  powder  and  dynamite.  Finally 
disappointment,  misgivings,  an  indiscriminate  swal 
lowing  of  both  capital  and  labor  in  one  tremendous 
avalanche  of  failure  .  .  .  And  the  merry  band  of  Ar 
gonauts,  shaking  off  their  dismay  as  a  spaniel  shakes 
off  water  and  cocking  their  beavers  at  the  face  of  mis 
fortune,  had  followed  the  gold  lure  into  farther  fields, 
the  Kootenais  this  time. 

To-day  the  Hoodoo  district  was  empty  of  life  ex 
cept  for  a  couple  of  ancient  Chinamen  from  Cali 
fornia,  satisfied  with  washing  their  daily  dole  of  five 
dollars  of  gold  in  a  forgotten  claim;  a  few  op 
timistic  Spokane  prospectors  who  dreamt  glimmer 
ing  mirages  of  mica;  and  John  Truex,  called  "Old 
Man"  Truex  throughout  the  Inland  Empire. 

He  was  a  relic  of  former  days,  a  man  who  had  once 


THE  YANKEE  DOODLE  GLORY     3 

hobnobbed  with  such  notorious  characters  of  local 
Northwestern  history  as  Soapy  Smith  and  Swiftwater 
Bill  and  who,  well  past  three  score  and  ten,  white- 
haired,  patriarchal,  yet  erect  and  lithe,  had  built  him 
self  a  two-story  cabin  of  logs  neatly  dovetailed,  in  the 
heart  of  the  bleak,  frowning  Koodoos.  It  was  sur 
rounded  by  a  flower  garden,  odorous  with  old-fash 
ioned  blossoms,  and  flanked  by  a  nostalgic  strawberry 
patch,  shooting  thin  roots  in  fifteen  inches  of  well- 
fertilized  soil  that  he  had  carried  in  bags  from  the  roll 
ing  Palouse  and  spread  with  loving  hands  on  the  nar 
row  rock  ledge  that  framed  his  cabin. 

He  still  called  himself  a  prospector,  still  was  sure 
that  some  day  he  would  strike  it  rich,  and  he  was  the 
partner  of  Tom  Graves,  half  owner  in  the  latter's 
prospect  hole  that  was  called  grandiloquently  the  Yan 
kee  Doodle  Glory  and  was  the  joke  of  every  mining 
man  from  Seattle  to  the  Idaho  Panhandle. 

Not  that  Tom  Graves  was  a  miner  by  profession. 

He  had  been  born  thirty  years  earlier  in  the  Palouse, 
had  never  been  west  of  Spokane  nor  east  of  Butte,  and 
had  followed  the  range  all  his  life.  As  a  boy  he  had 
helped  his  father  in  a  decade's  hopeless  fight  against 
the  sprouting  of  grain,  the  fencing  of  free  land,  and 
the  nibbling  of  sharp-toothed  sheep,  afterwards  riding 
herd  to  various  cattle  men,  and  finally  becoming  horse 
wrangler  to  Charles  Nairn,  the  owner  and  manager  of 
the  Killicott  ranch. 

He  was  a  typical  Man  on  Horseback,  an  atavistic 
throwback  to  an  earlier  age  when  men  rode  free  and 
large,  and  before  steam  and  electricity  and  machinery 
came  to  cumber,  some  say  to  lighten,  the  world's  bur 
den.  But  he  was  not  displeased  when  his  friends  re 
ferred  to  him  as  "the  miner,"  or  introduced  him  to 
traveling  salesmen  or  visiting  ranchers  as  the  "King 


4  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

of  the  Hoodoos."  For  he  had  a  healthy  American 
appetite  after  money  and  the  decent  things  that  money 
can  buy. 

He  remembered  how  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  had 
come  into  his  possession  at  the  end  of  a  memorable 
day  and  night  two-handed,  stud-poker  session  with 
Dixon  Harris,  the  horse  wrangler  of  a  neighboring 
ranch. 

Tom  had  won  steadily,  hand  after  hand,  pot  after 
pot,  until  finally  Dixon  Harris  had  risen  to  his  feet, 
had  taken  a  greasy,  yellowish,  thumb-stained  paper 
from  his  pocket,  and  thrown  it  across  the  table. 

"I  am  flat,  Tom,"  he  had  announced.  "Thirty 
seeds  to  the  bow-wows  an*  next  pay  day  a  hell  o'  a 
long  ways  off.  Take  this  here  Yankee  Doodle  Glory 
an'  call  it  even.  Somebody  stuck  me  with  it  when  I 
wasn't  lookin'  an*  now  I'm  goin'  to  stick  you,  you 
old  son-of-a-gun.  Turn  about's  fair  play!" 

And  Tom  Graves  had  laughed  and  had  taken  the 
title  certificate — the  mine  was  patented — in  payment 
of  Dixon  Harris'  gambling  debt. 

The  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  was  a  standing  joke  in 
the  community.  It  had  had  a  variegated,  picturesque, 
and  not  altogether  honest  career.  It  had  been  sold 
and  re-sold  to  capitalists  from  Boston,  London,  Minne 
apolis,  and  New  York,  abandoned  and  picked  up  again, 
disposed  of  at  auction  in  Spokane  amidst  the  roaring 
laughter  of  those  present  for  thirty-five  cents  cash 
("an'  you're  paying  damned  high  for  what  you're  get 
ting!"  the  auctioneer  had  added  facetiously);  money 
had  been  spent  on  it  lavishly  for  blasting  and  timber 
ing,  tunneling  and  assaying,  and  never  a  speck  of  color, 
neither  gold  nor  silver,  neither  copper  nor  galena,  had 
ever  been  discovered  in  its  frowning,  hopeless  depths. 

Men  out  there  in  the  Northwest  spoke  of  "passing 


THE  YANKEE  DOODLE  GLORY     5 

the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory"  as  men  in  other  places 
speak  of  "passing  the  buck" ;  and  now  laughing  Tom 
Graves  was  the  owner. 

But  though  he  had  had  half-a-dozen  chances  of 
palming  it  off  on  newcomers  fresh  from  the  East  he 
had  always  stoutly  refused  to  do  so. 

"It  isn't  because  I  don't  want  to  stick  Jem,"  he  had 
said,  blushing  like  a  girl,  "but  I'm  going  to  develop 
this  here  property  of  mine,  see?"  And  so  he  had 
formed  a  partnership  with  "Old  Man"  Truex  by  the 
terms  of  which  the  latter  contributed  the  labor,  the 
tools,  and  the  dynamite,  while  Tom  ceded  to  him  a 
half  interest  in  the  mine  and  gave  an  occasional  sum 
of  money  whenever  he  could  save  it  out  of  his  munifi 
cent  wage  of  sixty  dollars  a  month. 

And  then,  two  days  ago,  he  had  received  a  succinct 
and  ungrammatical  telegram  that  read : 

"Git  here  in  a  helluva  hurry  struck  it 
apowerful  and  aplenty. 

"(Signed); 


CHAPTER  II 

GOLD 

"LooK  a-here,  Tom,"  said  "Old  Man"  Truex  late 
that  evening  as  he  was  busying  himself  amongst  his 
pots  and  pans  that  shone  and  twinkled  and  glittered 
like  so  many  kindly,  ruby-eyed  hobgoblins,  "what  are 
you  goin'  t'do  with  your  half  of  all  them  opprobrious 
riches  down  yonder  in  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory?" 
He  waved  a  hand  through  the  window  towards  the 
Koodoos  that  coiled  back  to  the  star-lit  firmament  in 
a  great  wave  of  carved,  black  stone. 

Tom  was  toasting  his  legs  in  front  of  the  glowing 
hearth.  He  was  tired  and  sleepy  and  happy.  All 
morning  he  had  ridden;  then  the  long  up-hill  pull  on 
foot  from  "Swede"  Johnson's  homestead  to  the  cabin ; 
and  finally  three  hours'  climbing  and  slipping  in  and 
about  the  prospect  hole  of  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory 
under  his  partner's  guidance.  It  had  not  meant  much 
to  him:  just  a  flat  facet  of  shimmering  quartz  where 
the  old  miner's  pickaxe  had  uncovered  it,  something 
like  a  trail  of  haggard,  indifferent  light  that  disap 
peared  in  the  frowning  maw  of  a  rudely  blasted, 
rudely  timbered  tunnel,  and  a  small  heap  of  what  to 
him  had  appeared  to  be  rubbish,  but  which  his  part 
ner  had  handled  as  a  fond  mother  handles  her  first 
born  and  had  designated  as :  "Gold,  my  lad !  Virgin 
gold,  or  I'm  a  Dutchman!" 

"Sure  it  isn't  fool's  gold?"  [Tom  asked  now  with 
a  laugh. 

6 


GOLD  7 

/. 

"Fool  yourself!'*  In  his  excitement  Truex  missed 
the  flapjack  that  he  was  tossing  browned  side  up  into 
the  skillet,  so  that  it  dropped  on  the  ground  with  a 
flopping,  sizzling  smack.  "I  tell  you  it's  the  real 
thing.  Look  a-here,  Tom.  I  guess  them  years  on 
the  range  have  stunted  yer  perceptions.  Of  course  you 
don't  know  the  hills  as  I  do.  You  can't  know — oh — 
the  struggle,  the  fight,  the  treachery,  the  damned 
cheating  deceit  that's  in  them  rocks.  But,"  wagging 
his  patriarchal  beard,  "nor  can  you  know  the  promise 
of  them  hills.  Wealth  that  comes  to  you  suddenly 
after  you've  given  up  hope  and  are  mighty  near  to 
blowing  off  yer  head  with  a  stick  o'  powder !  Why, 
by  the  Immortal  and  Solemnly  Attested  Heck!" — 
this  was  his  pet  swear  word — "I  tell  you  I  have  ranged 
these  here  hills  since  I  was  knee-high  to  a  wood  louse 
and  I've  never  seen  such  a  vein  of — " 

"Say!     What  is  a  vein?" 

"Gosh  A'mighty !  Go  to  bed,  Tom,  before  I  brain 
you  with  my  skillet.  Only  take  this  bit  o'  informa 
tion  along  and  hug  it  in  yer  dreams:  You've  got 
enough  gold  down  there  in  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory 
to  buy  yourself  what  you  want!" 

"Oh!"  Tom  Graves  yawned  and  kicked  off  his 
high-heeled  boots.  "I  always  did  have  a  hankering 
after  the  coin.  There's  that  new  saddle  Dixon  Har 
ris  got  up  from  Gallup's.  Cost  him  seventy  seeds  and 
he's  willing  to  part  with  it  for  fifty,  spot  cash.  Guess 
there's  enough  gold  in  my  half  for  that?" 

Truex  shook  his  head  hopelessly. 

"Tom,"  he  said  very  solemnly,  "I  tell  you  there's 
enough  gold  in  there  so's  you  can  do  what  you  darned 
please.  You  can  go  to  Spokane  and  join  the  Club 
and  be  a  man  o'  leisure.  You  can  walk  up  Seventh 
Avenue  and  have  the  pick  of  all  them  swell  dumps 


8  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

there.  You  can  surround  yer  bow-legged  self  with 
Chink  cooks  and  autermobiles  and  baskets  of  cham 
pagne  and  .  .  .  Say,  what  d'you  call  them  things  full 
o'  small  bones  that  tastes  like  punk  chicken  and  sticks 
in  yer  throat?" 

"Fishes?"  suggested  Tom  sleepily. 

"No !  Not  fishes !  I  had  it  once  when  I  sold  that 
there  Sally  Miller  prospect  hole  to  that  Eastern  guy. 
Wait !  I  have  it !  Terrapin — that's  the  name !  Why, 
man,"  he  continued  seriously,  sitting  down  on  the  edge 
of  his  narrow  bunk  and  scratching  his  shins,  "there's 
so  much  gold  down  there  in  that  hole  it  makes  me 
afraid  at  times.  Afraid!"  he  repeated  in  a  strangely 
sibilant  whisper. 

"Say,  you're  locoed !"  Tom  laughed.  "What's  the 
matter  with  you,  old-timer?  Afraid  of  gold?" 

"I  ain't  afraid  of  the  gold.  Gold  is  all  right." 
Truex  shook  his  head.  "But,  Tom  .  .  ."  he  crossed 
the  room  and  put  his  hand  on  the  younger  man's  shoul 
der,  "when  you  were  down  there,  in  that  tunnel  of 
the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory,  didn't  you — oh — hear  some 
thing?" 

Tom  looked  up  sharply. 

"I  did.  But  it  wasn't  exactly  hearing.  It  was 
more  like  .  .  ."  he  hunted  for  the  right  word.  "Well, 
something  like  ...  I  don't  know  what!" 

"All  right.  You  did  notice  it  then!"  Truex  broke 
in  triumphantly.  "And  so  did  I !" 

"Isn't  it  always  so  in  a  mine?  In  a  tunnel?  Like 
an  echo?" 

"No.  It  isn't.  And  it  wasn't  like  an  echo.  Nor 
did  I  notice  it  until  my  pickaxe  knocked  off  that  bit 
o'  sure-enough  quartz,  the  morning  I  sent  you  that 
wire!  Say,  Tom,"  he  went  on,  very  earnestly,  "it's 
maybe  because  I  am  an  old  fellow  and  sorta  supersti- 


GOLD  9 

tious.  I've  followed  the  gold  trail  these  fifty  years 
or  more,  an*  I  know!  I  have  seen  mighty  strange 
things  in  the  hills.  I  could  tell — things.  And,  Tom, 
down  there  in  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory,  when  I  found 
that  bit  o'  quartz  with  the  true  color  sticking  in  it 
like  raisins  in  a  pudding,  I  had  a  funny  feeling.  I 
..  .  .  I  was  scared,  scared  stiff.  Well,  never  mind," 
he  wound  up,  returning  to  his  bunk  and  taking  off  his 
clothes.  "To-morrow  you  got  to  get  up  right  early 
and  take  a  sample  of  that  there  ore  to  Newson  Gar- 
rett  in  Spokane.  He'll  make  us  an  assay.  Good 
night." 

"Good  night,"  mumbled  Tom,  who  was  already  half 
asleep. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   UNKNOWN    METAL 

A  LONG  career  as  chemist  and  assayer  had  made  a 
pessimist  and  misanthrope  of  Newson  Garrett. 

Miners  had  come  to  his  laboratory  and  had  offered 
him  large,  certified  checks,  asking  nothing  of  him  in 
return  except  that  he  should  rectify  his  reports  by  tak 
ing  off  a  couple  of  figures  from  the  rubric  entitled 
Silica  and  add  them  to  that  labeled  Gold.  Other 
miners  had  proposed  to  kill  him  on  the  spot  when  he 
told  them  that  what  they  had  taken  for  virgin  gold 
were  only  shimmering,  deceptive  bits  of  iron  crystal. 
Still  others,  told  by  him  that  they  had  struck  it  rich, 
went  straightway  on  a  lengthy  spree  in  the  old  Cceur 
d'Alene  Theater  to  wake  up  a  week  later  with  a  split 
ting  headache  and  a  brown  taste,  and  to  discover  on 
returning  to  their  mines  that  somebody  had  jumped 
their  claims  in  the  meantime. 

So  he  was  morose  and  silent. 

"It'll  take  another  Treadwell,  another  Leroy,  to 
make  me  excited,"  he  used  to  say  at  the  Club  over 
his  glass  of  Vichy  and  milk,  "and  those  days  are  over. 
Why,  to-day  a  fellow  thinks  he's  all  the  Guggenheims 
rolled  into  one  and  multiplied  by  the  sum  total  of  all 
the  Vanderbilts  when  his  stuff  runs  two  ounces  to  the 
ton!" 

But,  five  days  later,  when  Tom  Graves  ambled  into 
his  office,  still  dressed  as  if  he  had  just  come  fresh 

10 


THE  UNKNOWN  METAL  II 

from  the  range,  in  blue  jeans  tucked  into  high-heeled 
boots,  a  gray  flannel  shirt,  and  sombrero,  but  all  neat 
and  clean,  even  slightly  dandyish  in  the  careful  knot 
ting  of  the  blue  cotton  necktie,  the  rakish  angle  of  his 
hat,  and  the  elaborate  pattern  stitched  on  his  boot 
legs,  Newson  Garrett  smiled.  He  smiled  all  over  his 
large,  puttyish,  hairless  face,  and  held  out  a  flabby 
hand. 

"Mr.  Graves,"  he  said  in  his  exact,  well-modulated 
diction  that  still  smacked  of  Harvard  after  a  lifetime 
in  the  Northwest,  "permit  me  to  shake  you  by  the 
hand." 

"Sure,  I'll  permit  it  if  you  ask  like  a  nice  little  girl. 
But,  what's  the  festive  occasion?  Why  this  exuber 
ance  of  comehitherness,  Garrett?" 

"Your  mine!"  replied  the  other.  "Your  Yankee 
Doodle  Glory!  The  jest  of  the  decade  has  turned 
into  the  marvel,  the  envy  of  the  decade,  my  dear  sir. 
It  is  wonderful.  I  might  say  extraordinary.  It  will 
make  history  in  the  mining  annals  of  the  Inland  Em 
pire.  See  for  yourself,"  handing  Tom  the  typewritten 
assay  report  of  the  quartz  samples  which  Truex  had 
given  him. 

read: 


"Au  .................................  115  oz. 

Ag  .................................  1.5  oz. 

Cu  ................  .....................  tr. 

Fe  ..................................  12.2% 

Si03  .................................  45% 

A12O3    CaO,    MgO,    etc.,    not    determined. 

There  is  also  present  an  element,  probably  some  metal  that 
could  not  be  determined,  as  it  did  not  respond  to  ordinary  tests." 

Tom  looked  up  with  a  laugh. 

"Say,  put  it  in  plain  American.     All  this  is  Siwash 
to  me.     What  does  it  mean  ?" 


12  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"It  means  that  you  are  rich  beyond  the  dreams  of 
avarice.     It  means   that  you  are   a  budding   Rocke 
feller.     It  means  that  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory,  if 
the  vein  runs  true  .  .  ." 
"Truex  says  it  does  .  .  ." 

"He  ought  to  know.  He  is  an  expert  at  blocking 
out  ore  bodies  in  his  own  crude  way." 

"I  guess  so/'  Tom  pointed  at  the  paragraph  at  the 
bottom  of  the  assay  report.  "Say,  Garrett,  what's 
this?" 

"Just  what  it  says  there.  You  see,  when  I  assayed 
the  ore  samples,  though  I  used  all  the  known  tests, 
there  was  one  little  ingredient,  a  metal  most  likely — 
I  am  trying  not  to  be  too  technical — that  I  was  un 
able  to  separate." 

Tom  leaned  across  the  counter.  He  thought  of  his 
partner's  curious  words,  and  of  his  own  curious  sen 
sation,  something  like  an  echo,  yet  less  decided,  more 
far  away,  he  had  experienced  when  he  had  entered 
the  tunnel  of  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  and  had  come 
face  to  face  with  the  ore  ledge  which  his  partner's 
pickaxe  had  uncovered. 

"This  unknown  metal  or  whatever  you  call  it,"  he 
asked,  "did  it — well — affect  you  any?  Your  ears,  I 
mean  .  .  .  ?" 

"Yes !"  Garrett  gave  his  words  the  emphasis  of  a 
suddenly  lowered  voice.  "It  did  affect  my  ears  in  a 
very  strange,"  he  thumped  the  table  in  an  access  of 
quite  unhabitual  excitement,  "a  perfectly  unscientific 
manner."  He  was  going  to  say  more,  but  checked 
himself.  "Never  mind,"  he  went  on,  "you  are  rich. 
You've  got  the  gold.  As  to  this  unknown  ingredient, 
this  unknown  metal,  I  have  made  sure  that  it  will  not 
interfere  with  any  smelting  process  you  may  decide 
on.  And  I  shall  send  it  East  to  a  friend  of  mine  who 


THE  UNKNOWN  METAL  13 

has  a  great  scientific  laboratory  to  see  what  he  makes 
of  it.  Don't  you  worry  about  it." 

But  Tom  Graves  did  worry  a  day  later  when  Truex 
suddenly  came  to  town  and  went  straight  to  his  room 
in  the  Hotel  Spokane. 

"Tom,"  said  the  old  miner,  "I'm  through  with  the 
Yankee  Doodle  Glory.  I'd  swap  my  half  of  it  for  a 
chaw  of  Macdonald's  plug."  And  being  pressed  for 
a  reason  he  repeated  his  former  statement  that  he  was 
afraid.  He  said  that,  in  continuing  blasting  the  tunnel 
and  running  it  smack  up  against  the  vein,  he  had 
uncovered  an  even  richer  ore  body,  but  that  the  strange 
sensations,  as  of  a  far-off  echo,  had  increased  a  hun 
dredfold. 

"Garrett  says  something  about  a  new  metal,"  re 
joined  Tom  Graves. 

"Forget  it.  Metals  don't  affect  your  ears.  I  don't 
want  nothing  to  do  with  that  there  mine." 

"But,"  said  Tom  philosophically,  "half  of  it  is 
yours." 

"I  don't  want  nothing  to  do  with  it,  just  the  same. 
I'm  scared.  I  don't  want  to  ever  enter  that  tunnel 
again !" 

"You  won't  have  to.  We'll  develop  the  mine  in 
style.  It  won't  cost  much,  will  it?" 

"No.  We  got  enough  ore  in  sight  to  pay  for  all 
the  machinery  we  need,  an'  I've  a  little  money  saved 
up.  But,"  he  repeated,  irritably,  "I  tell  you,  Tom, 
I'm  goin'  to  sidestep  that  there  mine.  I  don't  want 
nothing  to  do  with  it — not  a  damned  thing.  I'd 
rather  .  .  ." 

"All  right,  all  ri^ht,  old-timer.  Keep  your  hair 
on.  I'll  take  a  run  over  to  the  Club  and  have  a  talk 
with  Martin  Wedekind." 

the  latter  was  a  German- American  of  the  best  type. 


14  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

He  came  of  an  excellent  Berlin  family,  but  his  father, 
dead  these  many  years,  had  been  of  such  a  grimly 
Calvinistic  turn  of  mind  that  he  had  not  been  able  to 
understand  why  his  own  children  should  have  been 
born  with  a  grain  of  original  sin.  To  the  father,  the 
whole  of  life  had  meant  nothing  but  a  continuous  and 
emphatic  moral  action.  He  had  brought  up  his  two 
sons  accordingly,  and  had  strained  their  souls  to  such 
a  horrible  pitch  of  self -righteousness  and  hard  ideal 
ism  that  they  threatened  to  snap  and  recoil. 

And  finally,  in  the  case  of  Martin,  his  younger  son, 
it  had  recoiled.  He  had  been  guilty  of  a  small  sin  and 
had  been  shipped  off  to  America  thirty  years  earlier. 

He  had  come  straight  West,  had  done  well  there, 
and  had  become  an  American  heart,  soul,  and  politics, 
including  even  the  saving  prejudices.  He  hated  the 
very  sound  of  the  word  hyphen. 

"There  are  two  classes  of  hyphenates,"  he  used  to 
say  when  he  warmed  to  the  subject.  "There's  the 
sort  who  get  here  via  the  steerage  with  the  clothes  they 
stand  in,  make  their  stake,  thanks  to  the  splendid  hos 
pitality,  the  fairness  of  equal  chance,  and  the  unlim 
ited  possibilities  of  America,  and  return  to  Germany 
as  first-class  passengers  with  money  jingling  in  the% 
jeans.  Over  yonder  they  pose  aS  Simon-pure  Yan 
kees  and  read  the  New  York  Herald,  while  here  in 
America  they  swear  by  Bill  the  Kaiser  and  read  the 
New  Yorker  Herold.  They  are  the  breed  who  hate 
America  and  dislike  Germany,  who  try  to  straddle  the 
fence,  who  would  kick  at  the  climate  of  both  Hell  and 
Paradise,  who  are  neither  fish  nor  flesh  nor  good  red 
herring.  Then  there's  the  other  variety,  the  intel 
lectual  hyphenates — and  often  they  have  good  Amer 
ican  names  and  not  a  drop  of  German  blood  in  their 


THE  UNKNOWN  METAL  15 

veins — who  spout  statistics  about  German  efficiency, 
meaning  by  that  damnable  word  a  comparison  between 
what's  best  in  Germany  with  what's  worst  in  Amer 
ica.  I  hate  both  breeds.  I'm  an  American.  No.  I 
am  not  sorry  that  I  wasn't  born  over  here.  If  I  had 
been,  I  wouldn't  have  been  able  to  appreciate  so  thor 
oughly  what  America  is,  and  means,  and  does." 

To-day  Martin  Wedekind  was  retired  from  active 
business  affairs  and  spent  his  time  between  his  home 
in  Lincoln  Addition  and  the  Club,  where  he  played 
his  afternoon  game  of  cards  or  dominoes  and  took 
his  whiskey  straight,  like  a  native  born.  His  wife 
was  a  New  England  woman  and  he  had  an  only  child, 
a  daughter.  He  was  a  little  on  the  autumn  side  of 
fifty,  tall,  heavy,  slightly  stooped,  with  peering,  twin 
kling,  kindly  eyes,  a  mass  of  close-curled  hair,  a  thick, 
graying  mustache,  and  great  hairy  hands  that  he  used 
freely  to  gesticulate  with. 

He  did  so  this  afternoon  when  the  Club  steward 
announced  Tom  Graves,  whom  he  had  met  the  year 
before  on  a  visit  to  the  owner  of  the  Killicott  ranch. 
At  that  time  an  impromptu  friendship  had  sprung  up 
bet\veen  the  two  men  in  spite  of  their  difference  in 
age  and  fortune  and,  at  least  on  Tom's  side,  not  alto 
gether  hindered  by  the  fact  that  Bertha,  Martin  Wede- 
kind's  daughter,- was  blond  and  violet-eyed  and  straight 
of  limb. 

"Hullo,  Tom!  Hullo,  capitalist!"  was  his  hearty 
greeting  as  the  young  Westerner  ambled  into  the  room 
with  that  peculiar,  straddling,  side-wheeling  walk 
which  smacked  of  stock  saddle  and  rolling  prairie. 

Tom  grinned  sheepishly  as  he  sat  down.  "I  guess 
the  news  of  the  rich  strike  in  the  Yankee  Doodle 
Glory  is  all  over  town  by  this  time?"  he  asked. 


16  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Sure.     Garrett  spilled  the  beans." 

"Damned  good  beans,"  commented  Tom,  "fine  and 
rich  and  nutritious  and  juicy." 

"Yes.  But  look  out,  young  fellow.  Every  con 
agent  in  the  Inland  Empire  is  going  to  lay  for  you 
with  a  flannel-wrapped  brick  and  a  cold  deck." 

Tom  waved  a  careless  hand. 

"A  fat  lot  of  good  it'll  do  them,"  he  laughed.  "My 
mother  was  Scotch  and  as  careful  as  a  setting  hen, 
and  I've  followed  the  range  all  my  life.  Bulliest  lit 
tle  training-school  to  kick  some  horse  sense  into  you. 
Well,  Wedekind,"  he  leaned  across  the  table  and  his 
eyes  lit  up  with  a  frank,  boyish  appeal,  "you're  a  good 
friend  of  mine,  aren't  you?" 

"None  better!"  came  the  kindly  reply. 

"Fine  and  dandy.  You  see,  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about  that  mine." 

Wedekind  smiled. 

"Need  a  stake  to  start  your  developing  work?"  he 
asked,  slapping  his  check  book  on  the  table.  "Name 
your  figure,  my  boy." 

Tom  shook  his  head.  "Thanks.  It  isn't  that.  It's 
just  some  advice  I  want  about  my  partner.  The  old 
son-of-a-gun  has  gone  loco  .  .  ." 

"Gold  gone  to  his  head?" 

"Not  a  bit.  Gold's  gone  to  his  feet.  They're  cold, 
Wedekind,  as  cold  as  clay."  And  he  told  the  other 
about  the  curious  sensation,  as  of  a  far-off  echo,  he 
and  his  partner  had  experienced  in  the  tunnel,  adding 
that  Truex  resolutely  refused  to  have  anything  more 
to  do  with  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory,  and  showing 
Garrett's  assay  report  with  the  paragraph  about  the 
unknown  substance  on  the  bottom. 

"Garrett  says  it's  all  right?"  asked  Wedekind. 

"Sure.     As  right  as  rain.     Says  that  foreign  metal 


THE  UNKNOWN  METAL  17 

or  whatever  it  may  turn  out  to  be  won't  interfere 
with  the  smelting." 

"Well,  there's  nothing  to  worry  over  then.  I  guess 
platinum  was  an  unknown  metal  once,  and  even  gold 
and  silver  were  unknown  during  the  iron  age." 

"But  Truex  won't  play." 

"You  don't  need  him,  Tom.  You  work  the  mine 
yourself.  I'll  give  you  a  line  to  Fred  Gamble,  the 
engineer.  He  has  done  some  work  for  me.  And  you 
make  a  contract  with  Truex  .  .  .  Never  mind.  I'll 
take  the  matter  up  with  him  myself."  He  looked  at 
his  watch.  "What  are  you  doing  to-night?" 

"Oh,  nothing  special." 

"Fine.  Come  on  up  to  the  house  and  take  pot  luck. 
Mrs.  Wedekind  will  be  glad  to  see  you.  And 
Bertha,  too." 

"I  haven't  seen  your  daughter  since  last  year,"  said 
Tom,  as  he  walked  down  the  broad  staircase  of  the 
Club  side  by  side  with  Wedekind. 

The  latter  laughed. 

"She's  changed  some,"  he  replied.  "You  know  she 
has  been  visiting  my  brother  Heinrich  in  Berlin  for 
over  five  months.  Just  returned.  Oh,  yes,"  he  re 
peated  rather  musingly,  "she's  changed  some." 


CHAPTER  IV 

BERTHA  WEDEKIND 

"WELL,  Jom,  I  am  glad  to  see  you!"  Mrs. 
Wedekind,  small,  delicate,  white-haired,  with  some 
thing  about  her  reminiscent  of  old  lace  and  lavender, 
beamed  upon  him  through  her  gold-rimmed  spectacles. 
"And  rich,  aren't  you?'7 

Tom  Graves  felt  slightly  embarrassed.  References 
to  the  lucky  strike  in  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  and  his 
suddenly  acquired  wealth  often  made  him  curiously 
ill  at  ease  as  if  it  were  a  reflection,  quite  undeserved, 
on  his  character  and  his  manliness. 

So  he  smiled  vaguely  and  apologetically  and  shook 
her  hand  without  knowing  what  to  reply,  while  Mar 
tin  Wedekind,  guessing  what  was  going  on  in  the 
young  Westerner's  mind,  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Yes,  Fanny,"  he  said  to  his  wife.  "Who  would 
have  believed  last  year  that  the  Killicott  ranch  har 
bored  a  prospective  capitalist?"  He  turned  to  Tom 
and  led  him  to  the  sideboard  with  its  hospitable  array 
of  bottles  and  glasses  and  syphons.  "Shall  I  mix  you 
one  in  honor  of  the  occasion?" 

But  Tom  Graves  was  not  listening,  for  Bertha 
Wedekind  had  come  into  the  dining-room,  an  exquis 
ite  little  figure  with  her  wheat-colored  hair  that  rip 
pled  over  the  broad,  smooth,  low  forehead  in  a  curly, 
untamable  mass,  her  violet-blue  eyes,  her  pure  oval  of 
a  face,  pink  and  white  and  flower-soft.  Her  youth- 

iS 


BERTHA  WEDEKIND  19 

ful  incompleteness  seemed  a  lovely  sketch  for  some 
thing  larger,  finer,  more  splendid;  just  a  sketch  of 
happy,  seductive  hints  with  the  high-lights  of  woman 
hood  yet  missing. 

Tom  took  her  narrow,  white  hand,  looking  upon 
her  admiringly  and  approvingly.  She  was  dressed  in 
foamy  silver  lace  over  shimmering  rose-pink  satin, 
with  contrasting  moire  ribbons  in  deep  purple  and  a 
cluster  of  purple  satin  orchids  at  her  high  waist  line. 

Tom  laughed.  He  remembered  how  he  had  seen 
her  the  year  before,  on  the  Killicott  ranch  where  she 
had  been  spending  the  summer  together  with  her  par 
ents,  in  riding  breeches,  a  khaki  coat,  a  blue  silk  tie 
loosely  knotted  around  her  slim  throat,  and  her  hair 
pinned  up  carelessly  beneath  a  flopping,  mannish  stet 
son,  riding  the  range  alongside  of  him  and  glorying 
in  the  speed  and  tang  and  zest  of  it. 

"By  Ginger,  Bertha,"  he  said,  "you've  sure  changed 
some.  Now  that  gown  of  yours,"  he  was  studying  it 
naively,  "I  lay  you  my  rock  bottom  dollar  it's  from 
Paris." 

Bertha  smiled  rather  languidly. 

"I  am  afraid  you  would  lose  your  bet,  Tom,"  she 
replied.  "This  gown  is  not  from  Paris.  I  bought  it 
in  Berlin.  Had  it  made  there  .  .  ."  And,  as  if  re 
turning  to  a  subject  that  was  uppermost  in  her  mind : 
"You  don't  have  to  go  to  Paris  any  more  for  gowns 
or,  oh,  'most  anything.  You  can  get  everything  you 
want  in  Berlin.  Not  only  frocks  and  frills,  but  beauty, 
and  culture,  and  big  things,  worthwhile  things !  Why, 
compared  to  Germany,  America  is  .  .  ." 

"Daughter,"  cut  in  her  mother  dryly,  "aren't  you 
forgetting  that  you  are  an  American?" 

"Dad  is  a  German.     Aren't  you,  Dad?" 

Martin  Wedekind  flushed  an  angry  red.     "I  was 


20  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

born  in  Berlin.     But  I  am  an  American — every  inch 
of  me— all  the  time !" 

"Uncle  Heinrich  told  me  in  Berlin  that  .  .  ." 

"Leave  your  Uncle  Heinrich  out  of  the  question. 
He  and  I  have  gone  different  ways.  I  tell  you  that 
I  am  an  American,  while  he  is  a  Prussian  officer. 
And — "  turning  to  Tom  and  smiling  bitterly,  as  if 
remembering  something  that  had  happened  very  long 
ago  and  that  he  had  never  been  able  to  eradicate  com 
pletely  from  his  mind,  "you  know  what  Prussian  of 
ficers  are,  don't  you?" 

Tom  shook  his  head.  His  range  of  actual  expe 
rience  was  limited  by  Spokane  to  the  west,  by  Butte 
to  the  east,  and  the  British  Columbia  border  to  the 
north.  Of  course  he  had  known  foreigners,  but  they 
were  mostly  Britons,  Canadians,  and  Scandinavians, 
men  very  much  like  himself,  men  blending  easily  into 
the  great,  rolling  West. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  they  are,"  continued  Wedekind 
heatedly,  "for  I  know  them.     They  are  brass-buttoned, 
brass-gallooned,    brass-helmeted,   brass-souled,    saber-, 
rattling  vulgarians.     They  are  .  .  ." 

"Father!  Please!"  came  Bertha's  hurt,  indignant 
cry,  and  at  the  same  time,  simultaneous  with  the  Chi 
nese  servant's  felt-slippered  appearance,  Mrs.  Wede 
kind  interrupted  with  a  conciliatory : 

"The  soup's  on  the  table!" 

Martin  Wedekind  laughed. 

"Never  mind,  little  fellow,"  he  said  to  his  daugh 
ter,  calling  her  by  his  favorite  nickname,  "you  and  I 
aren't  going  to  quarrel  over  .  .  ." 

"Over  anything  or  anybody,  Dad  dear."  Bertha 
finished  the  sentence  for  him,  and  gave  his  arm  an 
affectionate  little  squeeze. 

But  even  so  there  was  a  sort  of  embarrassed  hush 


BERTHA  WEDEKIND  21 

during  dinner  now  and  again  when  the  conversation 
turned  to  Berlin;  and,  somehow,  it  seemed  impossible 
to  keep  away  from  the  subject.  Bertha  was  young 
and  impressionable.  She  had  just  returned  from  Ger 
many  after  her  first  visit  abroad ;  and  all  she  had  seen 
there,  and  felt  and  heard,  was  very  vivid  in  her  mem 
ory,  and  very  important. 

Tom  Graves  looked  at  her  rather  ruefully.  He  was 
deeply  in  love  with  her,  and  he  said  to  himself  that 
she  was  different  from  the  girl  he  used  to  know,  dif 
ferent  from  the  clear-eyed  Western  girl  who  had  rid 
den  by  his  side  across  the  rolling  range  of  the  Killi- 
cott.  Harder  she  seemed,  more  sure  of  herself,  less 
considerate  of  other  people's  feelings,  more  stubborn 
and  unreasonable  in  the  swing  of  her  own  prejudices, 
more  critical  and  skeptical;  and  after  dinner,  when 
Mrs.  Wedekind  had  left  the  house  to  call  on  a  neigh 
bor  while  her  husband  was  stealing  a  surreptitious 
forty  winks  behind  the  shelter  of  the  evening  paper, 
the  change  struck  him  more  forcibly  than  ever. 

Bertha  was  at  the  piano,  her  fingers  softly  sweeping 
the  keys  while  she  hummed  a  German  song : 

"Klingling,  tschingtsching  und  Paukenkrach, 
Noch  aus  der  Feme  tont  es  sdnyach, 
Ganz  leise  bumbumbumbum  tsching, 
Zog  da  ein  bunter  Schmetterling, 
Tschingtsching,  bum,  um  die  Ecke?"  .  .  . 

Tom  looked  at  her :  at  the  tiny  points  of  light  that 
danced  in  her  fair  hair,  the  soft  curve  of  her  neck,  the 
slim,  straight  young  shoulders,  and  he  took  a  deep 
breath,  like  a  man  about  to  jump.  He  was  what 
his  life  had  made  him,  the  range,  the  free  roaming, 
the  open,  vaulted  sky.  Simple  he  was  and  just  a 
little  stubborn;  at  times  easily  embarrassed,  but  of 
a  lean  veracity,  with  himself  and  other  people,  that 


22  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

forced  him  to  speak  out  sudden  and  unafraid  where 
other,  more  sophisticated  men,  would  have  hesitated. 

Thus  it  was  now. 

He  had  always  loved  her,  and  he  had  never  con 
sidered  the  fact  that  he  was  a  simple  horse  wrangler, 
while  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  well-to-do,  well- 
educated  man. -What  had  kept  him  from  speaking 
to  her  of  love  had  been  the  fact  that  he  had  been  poor. 
Now  he  was  on  the  road  to  fortune,  and  so  he  spoke* 
straight  out,  without  preamble: 

"Bertha,  I  must  tell  you  something.     I  ..." 

She  turned  very  quickly  and  cut  through  his  sen 
tence  with  a  gesture  of  her  slim,  white  fingers. 

"Don't,  Tom,"  she  said. 

"But  you  don't  know  what  I  ..." 

"I  do.  You  are  going  to  tell  me  that  you  love  me, 
aren't  you?"  And,  when  he  did  not  reply,  just  in 
clined  his  head,  she  went  on:  "I  shall  never  marry  an 
American !" 

"You  .  .  .    What?"    Tom  was  utterly  taken  aback. 

"I  shall  never  marry  an  American,"  she  repeated 
calmly. 

-But— why?" 

She  did  not  reply  for  several  seconds.  She  had 
always  liked  Tom,  had  always  felt  safe  in  his  pres 
ence.  There  had  even  been  moments,  last  year  on  the 
Killicott  ranch,  when  her  liking  had  edged  close  to 
the  danger  line  of  something  greater.  But  she  had 
changed  since  then.  In  Berlin  a  new  world,  new 
people,  a  new  view-point,  new  prejudices,  had  spread 
before  her;  and,  honest  in  so  far  that  she  saw  things 
without  spectacles,  dishonest  in  so  far  that  these  things 
were  only  those  she  wanted  to  see,  she  told  Tom  just 
what  she  thought. 


BERTHA  WEDEKIND  23 

"Love  to  me  is  a  romantic  thing,  and  you — I  mean, 
American  men — are  so  terribly,  terribly  prosy,  so  com 
monplace  !" 

Tom  Graves  was  hurt.  Not  personally  hurt,  but 
hurt  in  his  Americanism,  his  patriotism.  I*t  was  a  nar 
row  patriotism,  geographically  limited,  but  it  was  clean 
and  good  and  very  decent. 

"Bertha/'  he  said,  "pardon  me — but  you  don't  know 
what  you're  talking  about!" 

"Oh,  don't  I?" 

"You  don't.  Romance?  Is  that  what  you  are 
after  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  stubbornly. 

"All  right.  And  aren't  we  Americans  romantic 
enough  for  anybody  who  cares  for  that  sort  of  thing? 
Why,  girl,  is  there  anything  more  romantic  in  the  wide 
world  than  a  typical  American  whose  great-grand 
father,  rifle  in  arm  and  knife  in  boot,  came  out  of 
Virginia  into  Kentucky  in  the  days  when  Kentucky 
was  the  farthest  frontier?  Not  for  gain,  but  just  to 
see  what  was  going  on  behind  the  ranges?  Whose 
grandfather  drifted  into  Kansas  when  it  was  'Bloody' 
Kansas  and  thence  via  Panama  to  California  in  the 
first  great  gold  rush?  Whose  father  mined  and 
ranched  and  played  poker  and  drank  his  red  liquor 
from  Alaska  to  the  Sierras  ?" 

"Meaning  yourself?" 

"You  bet  your  life!  I  guess  I've  read  some,  back 
on  the  old  homestead,  in  the  long  winter  evenings  in 
my  father's  tattered  old  books!  I  read  a  lot  about 
your  Brian  Boru,  and  Richard  the  Lion-Hearted,  and 
Tamerlane,  and  Frederick  Barbarossa,  and  Roland, 
and  all  the  other  guys  with  their  long,  foreign,  stem- 
winding  names!  But,  say,  for  real,  live,  kicking  ro- 


24  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

mance,  you  give  me  a  plain  American,  out  of  the 
Northwest,  via  Kentucky,  Kansas,  and  California! 
Give  me  .  .  ." 

"Teleglam,  Missie!"  came  a  soft,  sing-song  voice 
from  the  door,  and  Yat,  the  old  Chinese  servant,  wad 
dled  in,  giving  a  yellow  envelope  to  Bertha. 

She  tore  it  open  rapidly,  read,  and  rushed  over  to 
her  father. 

"Dad!     Dad!" 

He  sat  up,  rubbing  his  eyes.  "Hello,  little  fellow! 
What's  all  the  excitement  ?" 

"Oh,  Dad !  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede  is  coming  to 
America !  He's  going  to  come  West,  to  Spokane !" 

Martin  Wedekind  did  not  reply.  Rather  pityingly 
he  looked  at  Tom  Graves,  who  was  moodily  studying 
the  pattern  in  the  claret-colored  Saruk  rug. 

But  the  German  baron's  cable  was  not  the  only  one 
which  was  flashed  over  the  Western  wires  that  night. 
For  when  Tom  returned  to  his  room  at  the  Hotel 
Spokane  he  found  there  a  telegram,  dated  Berlin, 
offering  him  half  a  million  dollars  spot  cash  for  con 
trol  of  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory. 

It  was  signed:  "Johannes  Hirschfeld  &  Co., 
G.  M.  B.  H." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  OFFER 

"WHAT  do  these  hieroglyphics  mean?"  asked  Tom 
of  Martin  Wedekind  the  next  afternoon,  pointing  at 
the  signature  of  the  cablegram. 

'"G.M.B.H.F" 

"Yes." 

"It's  an  abbreviation  for  'Gesellschaft  mit  be- 
schrankter  Haftung/  " 

"Sounds  like  a  he-clam  singing  through  his  nose," 
came  Tom's  observation.  "What's  the  answer?" 

"The  English  for  it?  'Company  with  limited  re 
sponsibility/  'J°hannes  Hirschfeld  &  Co.,  Ltd./  as 
the  English  would  have  it.  By  the  way,  some  little 
offer  that,  Tom!  Half  a  million  cold  cash  .  .  . 
Whew!" 

"I  guess  it's  some  sort  of  a  con  game." 

"No!"  Wedekind  laughed.  "In  Germany  the 
name  of  Johannes  Hirschfeld  stands  for  nickel-plated, 
harveyized-steel,  all-wool  respectability.  The  Hirsch- 
felds  are  hand  in  glove  with  the  Deutsche  Bank,  and 
the  Deutsche  Bank  people  are  as  thick  as  thieves  with 
the  German  Government." 

"In  other  words,  that  offer  is  O.  K.  ?" 

"Sure,  Tom.     If  you  want  to  sell." 

Tom  Graves  shook  his  bristly,  red  head.  "What 
knocks  me  is  how  that  Berlin  gang  knows  about  the 

25 


26  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Yankee  Doodle  Glory.  Why,  man,  everybody  used 
to  poke  fun  at  that  particular  prospect  hole  in  the 
Hoodoos.  There  wasn't  a  day  in  the  last  twenty  years 
when  you  couldn't  have  picked  up  the  Yankee  Doodle 
for  a  grin  and  a  handful  of  peanuts,  and  now  .  .  . 
Wait!" 

They  were  sitting  in  the  little  red-and-gold  poker 
room  of  the  Club  and  just  then  Newson  Garrett  was 
passing  by  on  his  way  to  the  library.  Tom  hailed  him 
through  the  open  door: 

"Say,  Garrett!  Step  in  here  a  moment."  He 
showed  him  the  cable.  "What  d'you  make  of  it? 
Half  a  million  chilly  ducats  for  the  Yankee  Doodle 
Glory!" 

"For  a  controlling  interest  in  it,"  rectified  the  exact 
assayist.  Then  he  shook  his  head.  "Steep  price. 
Too  steep.  Those  Dutchmen  are  loco.  Brand  them 
before  they  escape." 

"Yes,  yes,"  put  in  Martin  Wedekind.  "But  the 
Hirschfeld  people  are  not  exactly  fools.  They  have 
mining  interests  all  over  the  world,  and  agents,  and 
correspondents.  There  must  be  a  reason  .  .  ." 

"And  they  seem  to  be  in  a  devil  of  a  hurry,"  said 
Tom.  "  'Old  Man'  Truex  struck  the  vein  on  the  first, 
and  to-day  is  the  fifteenth.  Let  me  figure  back." 

"You  got  to  the  Hoodoos  on  the  third." 

"Yes.  Back  in  Spokane  on  the  fifth,  and  gave  you 
the  ore  sample  the  same  day." 

"Yes,"  Garrett  inclined  his  head.  "I  made  my  as 
say  tests  on  the  sixth,  while  you  went  back  to  the  Kil- 
licott  ranch  and  asked  me  to  hold  my  report  until 
your  return  .  .  ." 

"Which  was  on  the  eighth.  Of  course  the  news  of 
the  strike  spread,"  added  Tom. 

Wedekind  looked  up  suddenly. 


THE  OFFER  27 

"Garrett,"  he  asked,  "Tom  told  me  you  sent  some  of 
the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  ore  samples  to  New  York, 
to  a  friend  of  yours  who  has  a  great  chemical  labora 
tory  ?" 

"I  did.  There  was  that  unknown  metal  which  I 
was  unable  to  separate." 

"When  did  you  send  it?" 

"On  the  seventh." 

"And  it  reached  New  York  on  the  eleventh  .  .  ." 

"Or  the  twelfth,  Wedekind." 

"Let's  call  it  the  twelfth."  Wedekind  cupped  his 
chin  in  his  hands.  He  was  thinking  deeply.  "To 
day  is  the  fifteenth,"  he  went  on.  "Three  days'  differ 
ence.  What's  the  name  of  your  New  York  friend?" 

"The  chemist  ?     Oh,  Sturtzel.     Conrad  Sturtzel." 

"A  German?" 

"Yes.  We  studied  together  in  Freiburg  where  I 
took  a  post-graduate  course.  First-rate  fellow.  Very 
clever.  The  right  sort  to  find  out  all  about  that  un 
known  ingredient."  He  rose.  "Sorry  I  have  to  leave 
you,  gentlemen.  And — Tom !  Take  that  half-million 
offer !  By  all  means !" 

"Don't  you  do  anything  of  the  sort!"  Wedekind 
said  when  Garrett  had  disappeared. 

"Why  not?"     Tom  was  frankly  astonished. 

"Because  ...  I'll  be  frank  with  you.  Because 
Sturtzel  is  a  German,  and  because  that  very  respect 
able  and  very  honest  firm  of  Johannes  Hirschfeld 
&  Co.  .  .  ."  " 

"You  think  they'd  welsh?" 

"No.  They'd  pay  you  spot  cash  in  good,  minted 
gold  coin  of  the  realm.  It's  because"  —  instinc 
tively  he  lowered  his  voice — "they  are  hand  in  glove 
with  the  Deutsche  Bank,  with  the  German  Govern 
ment.  ." 


28  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"You  don't  trust  the  Germans  any  too  much,  do 
you,  Wedekind?" 

"I  don't !"  There  was  veiled  bitterness  in  the  older 
man's  voice.  "I  know  them.  My  brother  Heinrich, 
he  writes  to  me — he  asks  me  to  ...  Never  mind — 
never  mind!  But  I  tell  you  I  know  them.  I  know 
their  virtues.  But  I  also  know — the  other  side. 
Tom,"  he  went  on  very  insistingly,  "don't  you  sell  that 
mine.  If  it's  worth  half  a  million  to  them,  as  a  gam 
ble,  a  gamble,  mind  you  .  .  ." 

"It's  worth  that  same  to  me.  I'm  on.  Sure.  And 
I'll  have  all  the  joy  of  developing  the  property,  of 
working  it,  of  seeing  my  fortune  grow.  Why,  Wede 
kind,"  he  went  on  enthusiastically,  "it's  bully,  per 
fectly  bully !  It  makes  me  feel  strong,  and  powerful, 
and  .  .  ." 

Wedekind  made  a  hurried,  anxious  gesture.  "You 
don't  own  control,  do  you?" 

"No.  It's  an  even  fifty-fifty  split  with  'Old  Man' 
Truex." 

"And  he  told  you  he  wanted  nothing  more  to  do 
with  the  mine."  He  rose.  "All  right.  I'll  talk  to 
him.  Where  does  he  stay  ?" 

"Up  at  Eslick's." 

"Wait  for  me  here.     I'll  fix  it  up  for  you." 

And  when  Wedekind,  ten  minutes  later,  reached  the 
old  prospector's  dusty,  bare  room  in  the  Eslick,  he 
found  him  in  the  act  of  lighting  his  pipe  with  some 
thing  that  looked  suspiciously  like  a  twisted-up  cable 
gram. 

He  looked  up  when  Wedekind  entered. 

"Hullo,"  he  said  hospitably ;  "sit  down  and  reach  on 
the  shelf  yonder.  You'll  find  some  liquor  there  that 
ain't  so  bad."  He  laughed.  "Say,  Wedekind,  some 
damn  fool's  tryin'  to  play  a  joke  on  me.  Sends  me  a 


THE  OFFER  29 

telegram  from  one  of  them  furrin'  places  an'  asks  me 
to  sell  him  control  of  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  for 
half  a  million  .  .  ." 

"Who?" 

"Don't  know.  Didn't  look  at  the  signature." 
Truex  rammed  the  paper  spill  deeper  into  his  blackened 
pipe  bowl.  "An'  I  don't  give  two  whoops  in  hell. 
I'm  through  with  the  Yankee  Doodle.  I'm  scared 
of  it." 

"That's  just  what  I  came  here  to  talk  to  you  about," 
said  Wedekind,  leaning  across  the  table.  "Lis 
ten  .  ." 


CHAPTER  VI 

GETTING  ON 

"OLD  MAN"  Truex's  conditions  were  the  acme 
of  guileless  simplicity. 

All  he  wanted  was  to  be  left  alone;  for  as  he  re 
peated  over  and  over  again  with  senile  persistency,  he 
was  scared  of  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  and  "he  didn't 
want  nothing  more  to  do  with  it." 

At  first  he  was  all  for  accepting  a  small  cash  remu 
neration  for  his  past  services,  and  he  wanted  to  give 
to  Tom  the  entire  stock  of  the  company,  which  in  the 
meantime  had  been  incorporated,  free  of  charge. 

"Take  it,"  he  said;  "there  ain't  any  strings  at 
tached." 

But  finally  he  was  persuaded  to  accept  one-half  of 
the  net  profits  every  month  as  his  share,  leaving  con 
trol  of  the  property  in  Tom  Graves'  hands. 

"Now  are  you  satisfied?"  he  asked. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Martin  Wedekind,  "for  what's  go 
ing  to  become  of  your  half  of  the  profits  in  case  of 
your  death?" 

Truex  glared  at  him  through  his  bushy  eyebrows. 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  kick  the  bucket  for  a  long  while 
yet!"  he  growled. 

"Sure.     Let's  hope  so.     But  suppose  you  .  .  ." 

"Well,  if  I  die,  let  Tom  keep  the  whole  lot." 

"Haven't  you  got  any  relatives,  any  family,  old- 
timer?"  suggested  the  latter. 

"No."  Then,  suddenly,  as  if  remembering  some- 

30 


GETTING  ON  31 

thing  forgotten  these  many  years:  "Wait.  By  the 
Immortal  and  Solemnly  Attested  Heck!  I  had  a  sis 
ter  once,  back  in  York  State  where  I  was  raised. 
Silly  little  goose !  Ran  away  with  some  measly,  fiddle- 
scratchin',  long-haired  foreigner,  and  I  ain't  ever 
heard  of  her  nor  seen  her  since.  Maybe  she  had  a 
kid." 

"What's  her  name?"  inquired  Tom. 

"Sally.     Sally  Truex." 

"I  mean  her  married  name?" 

"Can't  think  of  it,  pardner.  Makes  no  difference, 
though.  I  tell  you  what.  If  I  die  you  just  keep 
what's  due  me  and  hand  it  over  to  Sally  or  Sally's 
kids  if  they  show  up,  see?  Here!"  He  scrawled  a 
few  rude  words  on  a  piece  of  paper  and  handed  it  to 
Wedekind.  "I  guess  that's  good  enough,  ain't  it?" 

Wedekind  read. 

"It's  going  to  be  bomb-proof  in  a  jiff,"  he  said,  and 
he  sent  the  Club  steward  for  Alec  Wynn,  the  lawyer, 
who  was  in  the  next  room  playing  life  pool. 

Wynn  came  in  a  few  seconds  later,  and  Truex' s  will, 
for  it  was  no  less,  was  duly  and  legally  attested,  wit 
nessed,  and  sealed. 

"Shall  I  put  it  in  my  safe  for  you?"  asked  the 
lawyer. 

"I  guess  so,"  replied  Truex,  and  Wynn  left  to  finish 
his  interrupted  game. 

Truex  sighed  like  a  man  who  had  successfully  ac 
complished  a  herculean  task.  "Well,  there  we  are  all 
cocked  and  primed !  An'  as  to  my  share  of  the  boodle 
you  just  pay  it  in  every  month  at  the  Old  National 
Bank.  I've  a  bit  of  an  account  there,  an'  they'll  send 
me  whatever  I  need  when  I  write  to  'em." 

"Aren't  you  going  to  settle  down,  now  you  are 
wealthy?"  asked  Tom. 


32  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Me  ?  God,  no !  I'm  going  to  British  Columbia  up 
the  Elk  River  a-ways.  A  fellow  told  me  last  night 
there's  a  splotch  of  sure-enough  quartz  land  up  yon 
der  an'  I  want  to  have  a  dig  at  it." 

And  so  the  old  prospector  packed  his  telescope  grip 
and  was  off  to  the  border  on  the  next  Spokane  & 
Northern  train,  leaving  Tom  Graves  entirely  in  con 
trol  of  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory. 

Given  Newson  Garrett's  report  and  Wedekind's 
loyal  help,  he  had  little  trouble  in  raising  money  for 
the  initial  development  work,  and  Gamble,  the  young 
Pennsylvania  engineer  whom  Wedekind  had  recom 
mended,  went  into  the  task  with  such  speed,  zest 
and  efficiency  that  within  a  few  weeks  even  the  most 
doubting  Thomas  on  the  local  mining  stock  exchange, 
v/hich  met  every  forenoon  in  a  room  of  the  Hotel 
Spokane  appropriately  and  conveniently  next  to  the 
bar  room,  became  convinced  that  the  ore  strike  in  the 
Yankee  Doodle  Glory  was  not  an  elaborate  hoax,  with 
a  bait  for  suckers  attached.  Consequently  there  was 
many  a  man  who  groaned  at  the  remembrance  that  once 
he  had  been  the  possessor  of  the  prospect  and  that  he 
had  been  in  a  hurry  to  pass  it  on  to  the  next  greenhorn. 

Contrary  to  the  accepted  and  time-honored  tradi 
tions  of  Northwestern  mining  men  who  have  made 
their  fortunes  unexpectedly  and  over  night,  who  come 
to  town  on  a  roaring,  tearing  celebration,  who  strike 
the  more  unchecked  components  of  local  society  with 
the  strength  and  enthusiasm  of  a  flying  blast  and 
gather  around  them  a  festive  crowrd  of  both  sexes 
primed  with  exuberance  and  thirst  and  expectation, 
Tom  Graves  leaned  instinctively  towards  the  more 
sober,  the  more  conservative  set  of  which  Martin 
Wedekind  was  the  accepted  leader. 


GETTING  ON  33 

Not  that  he  was  a  prig.  He  was  what  is  known 
as  a  "regular  fellow"  in  want  of  a  better,  or  worse, 
word.  Good-humored,  good-natured,  easy-going,  gen 
erous,  he  had  the  gift  of  spreading  about  him  a  wave 
of  happiness  and  joy. 

So  it  was  not  altogether  because  of  his  rapidly 
growing  bank  account  in  the  Old  National  that  he  was 
elected  a  member  of  the  Club  and  invited  to  the  best 
houses,  both  of  proud  Seventh  Avenue  and  the  more 
humble  North  side — the  eternal  North  side  of  every 
Western  town. 

Of  course  mothers,  mothers  with  daughters  of  mar 
riageable  age,  that  is,  are  the  same  the  world  over, 
and  since  Tom  Graves  was  clean  and  straight  and 
decent  besides  being  well-to-do,  the  coming  Spokane 
season  was  destined  to  witness  a  tug  of  war  with  Tom 
as  the  matrimonial  prize;  Mrs.  Ryan  clucking  tri 
umphantly  when  Tom  danced  the  first  one-step  with 
Virginia  Ryan,  Mrs.  Plournoy  marking  down  a  trick 
in  her  favor  when  the  young  Westerner  led  her  daugh 
ter  Cecily  to  the  supper  table. 

But  Tom  was  blind  to  all  this  byplay. 

His  heart  was  entirely  taken  up  with  Bertha  Wede- 
kind. 

Dearer  she  was  to  him  than  the  dwelling  of  kings, 
and,  although  even  in  his  range  days  he  had  always 
been  slightly  dandyish,  it  was  for  her  rather  than  for 
himself  that  gradually  he  abandoned  the  more  pro 
nounced  horse- wrangling  mode  of  dress  and  appeared 
in  the  streets,  the  restaurants,  and  the  salons  of  Spo 
kane  in  the  garb  of  effete  civilization — with  a  few 
notable  exceptions.  For  he  still  remained  faithful  to 
his  floppy,  leather-encircled,  alkali-stained  stetson. 
He  still  refused  resolutely  to  wear  either  vest  or  gloves. 


34  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

He  still  found  it  impossible  to  get  rid  of  his  straddling, 
side-wheeling  walk,  the  memory  of  saddle  and  bit  and 
dancing  cayuse  bred  to  the  range  game. 

Meanwhile,  the  unknown  ingredient  of  the  Yankee 
Doodle  Glory  had  become  the  scientific  sensation  of  the 
hour. 

Many  a  learned  body,  many  a  mining  school,  from 
Columbia  to  Denver,  either  asked  for  ore  samples  or 
sent  trained  men  to  make  a  personal  examination  of 
the  mine  in  the  Hoodoos. 

But  nobody  was  able  to  discover  the  nature  of  the 
foreign  ingredient,  not  even  Conrad  Sturtzel,  the  Ger 
man  chemist  in  New  York,  to  whom  Garrett  had  ap 
pealed  and  who  had  an  international  reputation. 

Newson  Garrett,  though,  had  been  right  when  he 
had  told  Tom  that  the  presence  of  the  unknown  metal 
would  not  interfere  with  the  mine  itself.  The  under 
ground  work  progressed  speedily  and  well.  The  ore 
smelted  without  the  slightest  trouble,  and  though  the 
miners  at  first  complained  of  the  same  sensations,  like 
an  echo  far-off  that  had  scared  "Old  Man"  Truex 
away  from  the  Hoodoos  and  into  the  uncharted  wilds 
of  the  Elk  River  district,  they  had  no  lasting  ill  con 
sequences,  no  consequences  of  any  sort  for  that  matter. 

"It's  simply  as  if  you  \vere  sand-hogging  in  a  tun 
nel  below  a  river  bed,"  said  Gamble,  the  engineer,  and 
even  that  Conrad  Sturtzel  explained  by  a  lengthy  ar 
ticle  in  the  American  Ore  Age  in  which  he  proved, 
very  scientifically  and  long-windedly,  that  tunnels  laid 
at  a  certain  pitch  acted  as  reservoirs  for  tone  waves 
and  that  the  foreign  ingredient  had  of  course  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  the  curious  sensation ;  an  opinion 
which,  since  it  was  signed  with  Sturtzel's  name,  was 
accepted  by  the  scientific  and  mining  wrorld. 

Thus  the  double  marvel,  the  financial  one  of  Tom's 


GETTING  ON  35 

sudden  rise  to  fortune  and  the  scientific  one  of  the 
unknown  metal,  passed  into  the  limbo  of  familiar 
things  when — it  was  late  in  May  of  the  year  Nineteen 
Hundred  and  Thirteen,  over  fourteen  months  before 
the  outbreak  of  the  gigantic  Prussian  Crime — a  new 
sensation  electrified  Spokane  society. 

For  Bertha  Wedekind  remarked,  quite  casually,  at 
the  occasion  of  a  supper  dance  given  by  her  chum, 
Virginia  Ryan,  that  a  friend  of  hers  from  Berlin  was 
coming  to  Spokane  in  a  few  days. 

Virginia  smiled  superciliously.  She  had  met  a  num 
ber  of  Germans  and  made  no  secret  of  the  fact  that 
she  considered  them  very  worthy,  very  respectable,  and 
frightfully  bad  form. 

"Oh — we'll  try  and  be  nice  to  him,"  she  said. 

Bertha  smiled  triumphantly. 

"You  won't  have  to  try  so  very  hard/'  she  retorted. 
"You  see,  my  friend  is  an  officer  in  a  crack  regiment, 
my  Uncle  Heinrich's  regiment.  His  name  is  Baron 
Horst  von  Gotz-Wrede,  and  you  should  see  him  in  his 
uniform — blue  and  silver!  Perfectly  gorgeous,  my 
dear!" 

Virginia  collapsed  while  Tom,  who  sat  next  to 
Bertha,  felt  something  tug  at  his  heart-strings. 

It  was  later  in  the  evening,  as  he  helped  Mrs.  Wede 
kind  on  with  her  coat,  that  the  kindly  old  New  Eng 
land  woman  put  her  thin,  wrinkled  hands  on  his  shoul 
ders  and  said,  with  that  sudden  abruptness  of  hers, 
that  he  needn't  worry.  "Young  girls  will  be  young 
girls.  But — they  get  over  it !" 

Tom  was  taken  aback. 

"Then  you  .  .  .  You  know  .  .  .?"  He  stan> 
mered. 

"Of  course.  I  am  a  mother,  and  I  have  eyes  in 
my  head/'  she  smiled,  "though  I  do  wear  spectacles." 


36  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"But  .  .  ." 

"Tom  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Wedekind,  "you  are  a  nice 
boy.  I'd  love  dearly  to  have  you  for  a  son.  .  .  ." 

"Or  a  son-in-law  ?"  laughed  Tom,  with  a  return  of 
his  old,  happy  humor. 

"Yes,  Boy  dear.  But  you  must  go  in  and  win  her 
by  yourself.  Bertha  is  stubborn." 

"I'm  stubborn  myself,"  rejoined  Tom  Graves;  and 
he  bent  abruptly  and  kissed  the  old  lady  on  the  cheek. 


CHAPTER  VII 

BARON    HORST   VON    GOTZ-WREDE 

BARON  HORST  VON  GOTZ-WREDE  was  the  exact  op 
posite  of  the  German  accepted  and  perpetrated  as  typ 
ical  by  the  comic  sheets,  the  music  halls,  and  the  week 
lies  with  guaranteed  over  two  and  a  half  million  cir 
culation. 

He  was  neither  short  nor  plump.  His  hair  was  not 
honey-blond  and  brushed  straight  back  from  a  square 
and  stubborn  forehead;  there  was  no  supercilious  up 
sweep  of  pointed,  curled  mustache,  and  his  eyes  were 
neither  watery  blue  nor  glassed  in  by  immense,  pro 
fessorial  spectacles.  He  smoked  no  ell-long,  cherry- 
wood  stem,  china-bowl  pipe,  nor  did  he  dine  exclu 
sively  on  such  Teuton  delicacies  as  sauerkraut,  pickled 
herrings,  liver  sausage,  veal  kidney  roast  with  sour 
gravy,  and  nut  cake  topped  by  whipped  cream. 

On  the  contrary,  he  was  tall  and  lean  and  clean 
shaven,  of  a  certain  angular,  feline  grace;  dark 
enough  to  be  an  Italian  with  a  dash  of  Moor;  polite 
enough  to  be  a  Frenchman  of  fiction,  and  dressed  in  a 
pronouncedly  and  aggressively  British  style.  His 
clothes  spoke  of  a  Haymarket  tailor,  his  neckties  and 
socks  and  blazers  and  hats  of  the  Burlington  Arcades. 

He  was  good-looking,  even  striking-looking,  with 
his  clean,  trained  down  length  of  limb,  his  wide,  supple 
shoulders,  his  narrow  hips,  and  his  long,  predatory 
face  that  sloped  wedge-shaped  to  a  cleft  chin. 

Baron  Horst  von  Gotz-Wrede  was  a  cosmopolite, 

37 


38  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

and  he  had  a  disconcerting  habit  of  telling  people  so. 

"Now,  please  don't  take  me  for  one  of  those  fab 
ulous  Prussian  officers  who  have  swallowed  the  ram 
rod  with  which  they  were  beaten  in  school/'  he  said  in 
his  precise,  beautiful  English  to  Miss  Virginia  Ryan 
at  the  first  dinner  party  given  in  his  honor  by  the 
Wedekinds.  "I  assure  you  that  I  don't  begin  my 
morning  prayer  with  shouting  three  times  'Hoch  der 
Kaiser!'  nor  do  I  wind  up  the  evening  by  getting  dis 
mally  drunk  on  blond  beer  and  singing  some  senti 
mental  ditty  about  'Die  Lore  am  Thore!  I  am — " 
he  looked  into  her  heavy-fringed,  blue,  Irish  eyes, 
"well  .  .  .  Don't  you  think  that  I  could  easily  pass 
for  an  American?" 

"For  an  Englishman  rather — I  should  say,"  replied 
Virginia  Ryan. 

"What's  the  difference?"  laughed  the  Baron. 
"English  or  American?  It's  one  and  the  same,  and  I 
.  .  ."  He  raised  his  voice  slightly  so  that  it  carried 
the  length  of  the  dinner  table,  "We  Germans — have  a 
deep  respect,  a  lasting  admiration,  even  affection  for 
the  Anglo-Saxon  peoples."  He  rose,  glass  in  hand,  as 
if  carried  away  by  the  surging  feelings  in  his  heart. 
"Ladies  and  gentlemen!  Pardon  me — I  know  it's — 
oh — not  the  right  thing  to  do,  at  such  an  informal  lit 
tle  party.  But  will  you  permit  me  to  drink  to — ah" — 
looking  at  the  men  behind  the  table,  successful  men  of 
the  Northwest,  hearty,  well-fleshed,  keen  Americans 
with  a  sprinkling  of  Britons  and  Canadians — "to  you ! 
The  Anglo-Saxons!  First  in  freedom  and  achieve 
ment!" 

The  toast  was  taken  up.  Glasses  clinked.  Only 
Tom  Graves  and  Martin  Wedekind  sat  silent  and 
moody. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  the  Baron  was  a  great  so- 


BARON  HORST  VON  GOTZ-WREDE     39 

cial  success.  Too,,  a  social  lion.  Seventh  Avenue  and 
the  North  side,  the  Spokane  Club  and  the  Country 
Club,  native-born  and  Canadian-born,  vied  with  each 
other  in  entertaining  the  visitor,  who  was  plentifully 
supplied  with  money  and  had  taken  a  suite  at  the  new 
Davenport.  He  spoke  freely  and  ingenuously  to  the 
reporters  of  the  local  and  other  Northwestern  papers 
who  quizzed  him  for  copy. 

"My  reasons  for  coming  to  America?  Oh,  curios 
ity  to  see  with  my  own  eyes  if  the  American  women 
run  true  to  the  charming  specimens  which  we  see  in 
Berlin,  during  the  season;  and  anxiety — possibly 
tinged  by  a  little  envy,  but  you  must  not  print  this, 
gentlemen,  if  you  please — to  find  out  the  secret  for 
America's  colossal  advance  in  international  affairs. 
For,  gentlemen,  I  own  up  to  it.  We  of  my  country  are 
envious  of  you,  and  just  a  little  afraid.  I  hope  to 
Heaven  that  we  shall  always  be  friends — we  Germans 
— and  you — and" — he  turned  with  a  smile  to  Bob 
Defries,  correspondent  of  the  Victoria,  B.  C,  Daily 
Colonist — "you — Canadians — British!"  and  it  was 
natural  that  the  Baron's  words  were  freely  printed, 
quoted,  and  circulated. 

He  had  brought  letters  along  to  Martin  Wedekind 
from  the  latter's  brother  in  Berlin.  Too,  Bertha  told 
her  father  that  the  Baron  and  the  younger  comrades  in 
his  regiment  had  been  most  attentive  to  her  during 
her  stay  in  the  German  capital ;  and  so  Martin  Wede 
kind  was  of  necessity  forced  to  play  host-in-chief  to 
the  Prussian  officer. 

It  was  only  to  Tom  Graves  that  he  spoke  his  real 
mind. 

"I  don't  like  him,"  he  said. 

"Nor  do  I,"  growled  Tom.  "I  like  him  about  as 
well  as  a  cold  in  the  head." 


40  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

And  then  both  would  be  silent  and  look  guilty.  For 
they  were  fair  and  just,  and  deep  down  in  their  hearts 
they  knew  that  there  was  no  cogent  reason  for  their 
dislike.  On  the  other  hand,  Tom  was  too  honest  to 
hide  the  antipathy  he  felt,  and  when  he  met  the  Baron 
he  treated  him  in  an  abrupt,  rasping  manner  which, 
putting  the  odium  as  it  were  on  him  and  not  on  the 
other,  only  served  to  increase  his  dislike. 

"Say,  I  feel  like  kicking  him/'  he  said  one  day  to 
Newson  Garrett. 

"Whom?" 

"That  foreigner  with  the  unpronounceable,  double- 
barreled  name!  That  German  Baron  with  the  hook 
nose  and  the  British  accent  and  the  atmosphere  of 
noble  ancestors  and  the  general  culpability  that  goes 
with  it!" 

"The  ladies  like  him!"  signed  Garrett,  who  had  a 
tender  spot  in  his  heart  for  blue-eyed  Virginia  Ryan. 

"Sure — and  .  .  ."  Tom  checked  himself.  "I  was 
going  to  say  that  he  does  the  regular  Young  Lochin- 
var  dope,  hands  'em  out  sob  stuff  copped  from  the 
Ladies'  Own  Gazette,  signed  Jessica  Pinkney  and 
written  by  a  red-haired  Mick  with  a  pipe,  three  inches 
of  stubble,  and  an  overdue  board  bill.  But  it  isn't 
fair.  He  isn't  one  of  those  sighing,  ogling,  hand- 
kissing  society  corsairs.  He — and  I  hate  like  the  deuce 
to  own  up  to  it — he's  a  sportsman,  all  right.  And  it 
isn't  only  the  ladies  that  like  him.  The  men,  too, 
have  fallen  for  him  like  weak-kneed  nine  pins  ..." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  inquired 
the  logical  assayist. 

"Me?  Nothing!  I  am  going  to  shake  the  dust  of 
Spokane  off  my  feet.  Temporarily,  that  is.  I'm  go 
ing  up  to  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  and  have  a  squint 


BARON  HORST  VON  GOTZ-WREDE     41 

at  things  there.  My  bank  account  is  running  up  so 
fast  that  I'm  afraid  at  times  it's  all  a  dream  .  .  ." 

And  so,  the  next  morning,  Tom  Graves  left  town, 
and  two  days  later  found  him  facing  Gamble  in  the 
latter's  cabin,  a  long,  low  building  of  dovetailed  logs, 
dirt-roofed  and  chinked  with  mud,  most  of  its  four- 
paned  windows  built  in  to  "keep  the  air  out,"  its  tall 
stove  pipe  wired  and  braced,  trying  to  lead  an  up 
right  life  in  spite  of  the  furious  wind  that  sometimes 
boomed  from  the  higher  Hoodoo  peaks  and  roared 
through  the  draw  at  the  rate  of  forty  and  fifty  miles 
an  hour. 

But  Tom  was  quite  happy.  This  wasn't  the  range, 
the  Killicott.  Yet  at  least  it  was  the  free,  the  open. 
It  was  the  untrammeled  West;  his  own! 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    SECOND    OFFER 

IT  was  a  few  days  later  and  Tom  Graves  was  sit 
ting  side  by  side  with  Gamble  in  front  of  the  latter' s 
cabin,  contentedly  rolling  a  brown  paper  cigarette, 
looking  out  at  the  dipping,  peaking  mountains  and 
listening  to  the  sounds  of  pickaxe  and  blast  that 
drifted  across  from  the  tunnel  of  the  Yankee  Doodle 
Glory,  where  the  miners  had  begun  their  early  morn 
ing  shift. 

Directly  below  his  feet  lay  the  old  stage  route,  long 
disused,  last  memory  of  the  gold  seekers  who  had 
once  followed  the  glittering  metal  lure  to  the  Koodoos. 
It  was  still  in  fairly  good  condition,  ruts  and  grooves 
apart,  bottled  up  between  rock  ridges  five  hundred 
feet  high,  their  crevices  giving  foothold  to  stunted 
pines,  gnarled  fir  trees,  and  an  occasional  "bearberry" 
bush,  their  bases  sheltering  thick,  lacy  growths  of 
young  spruce.  The  rocks  stood  out  sharply  and 
threateningly,  like  gloomy  sentinels  silhouetted  against 
the  tight-stretched  sky,  while  the  road  beneath  lay 
bathed  in  purple  and  umber  light. 

It  was  quite  early  in  the  morning.  The  shiver 
ing  sun  rays  blinked  through  the  pines  and  gilded  the 
opposite  crags;  they  trickled  down  leisurely  to  a  rib 
bon-shaped  granite  ledge  and  a  sparkling  little  brook 
fringed  by  bush  and  willow. 

"Lonely  country/'  suggested  Gamble,  who  was  a 

42 


THE  SECOND  OFFER  43 

recent  arrival  from  some  old,  teeming  Pennsylvania 
mining  town. 

"Aha !  Lonely.  And  safe,"  replied  Tom,  lighting 
his  cigarette  and  sending  a  thick  plume  of  smoke 
straight  up  into  the  still  air.  "No  trouble  here  in 
the  hills.  I  used  to  swear  by  the  range.  Still  do. 
But  I  guess  old  Truex  is  right.  The  hills  are  all 
right,  too.  There  is  no  meanness  here,  no  cheating, 
no  swindling,  no  .  .  ."  And  then,  looking  intently 
through  puckered  eyes,  "say,  if  there  isn't  somebody 
coming!  Down  yonder!  Along  the  old  road!"  and, 
following  Tom's  outstretched  finger,  Gamble  saw  a 
tiny,  brown  spot  moving  along  rapidly  between  the 
rock  ridges. 

"Can't  see  his  face/1  went  on  Tom,  who  had  fetched 
a  pair  of  field-glasses  from  the  cabin,  "but  traveling 
in  considerable  style,  whoever  he  is." 

Gamble  took  the  glasses. 

"You  bet,"  he  replied;  "some  style!" 

For  the  tiny,  brown  spot  was  a  low  buckboard 
driven  by  one  man,  side  by  side  with  another,  and 
was  filled  to  overflowing  with  pieces  of  luggage — two 
Gladstone  bags,  a  plaid  roll,  a  canvas  roll,  a  linen- 
covered  trunk,  three  guns  in  pigskin  cases,  a  large 
creel  and  fishing  rod  and  a  camera. 

"Where  do  you  think  they  are  going?"  asked 
Tom. 

"Must  be  coming  here.  The  road  leads  to  Goat 
Peak.  That's  the  end  of  it,  and  there's  a  pretty 
smooth  ascent  from  there  up  to  this  cabin." 

"I  guess  so.  Wonder  who  it  is,  though,"  replied 
Tom  and,  half  an  hour  later,  while  Gamble  had  walked 
over  to  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory,  his  wonder  grew 
into  surprise  and  his  surprise  into  dull,  unreasoning 
anger. 


44  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

For,  around  an  out  jutting,  frayed  rock  that  marked 
the  end  of  the  Goat  Peak  Trail,  followed  by  a  lanky, 
perspiring  Palouse  farmer  youth,  laden  with  most  of 
the  pieces  of  luggage  that  had  crowded  the  buckboard, 
came  Baron  Horst  von  Gotz-Wrede,  smiling,  debonair, 
superbly  sure  of  himself,  with  hand  outstretched. 

"I  have  heard  so  much  about  your  free  and  open 
Western  hospitality  that  I  decided  to  have  a  try  at 
it,"  he  laughed.  "Here  I  am!  My  word!"  he  con 
tinued  in  his  curiously  British  accents,  "you  don't 
seem  a  bit  glad  to  see  me.  Have  I  broken  in  on 
the  hermit's  meditations  about  peace  and  the  pure 
life?" 

Tom  stiffened.  Then,  very  quickly,  he  stepped  for 
ward  and  shook  the  offered  hand.  For,  after  all,  the 
man  of  the  Far  West  is  very  much  akin  to  the  desert 
Arab  in  his  peculiarly  rigid  code  of  honor,  his  pe 
culiarly  sweeping  code  of  hospitality;  hospitality  even 
to  the  blood  enemy  who  touches  his  tent  ropes. 

"Glad  to  see  you."  He  tried  to  give  to  the  words 
a  ring  of  that  welcome  which,  deep  in  his  heart,  he 
knew  to  be  missing.  Then,  pointing  at  the  guns  and 
the  fishing  rod,  "Come  here  for  sport?  Not  much 
game  here,  I  am  afraid,  and  the  trout  are  as  shy  as 
butterflies." 

The  Prussian  officer  had  paid  off  the  young  farmer 
and  sent  him  on  his  way.  He  turned  to  Tom  with 
a  smile  of  utter,  winning  sincerity. 

"Mr.  Graves,"  he  said,  "I  have  been  told  by  men 
who  know  that  you  Westerners  are  jolly  good  poker 
players,  pretty  hard  to  bluff,  and  so  I  shall  put  my 
cards  on  the  table,  face  up.  Of  course  I  am  awfully 
fond  of  sport  and  I'd  be  glad  to  pot  one  of  your  big 
horns.  But  my  real  reason  in  coming  here  was  to 
have  a  look  at  that  famous  mine  of  yours,  the  Yan- 


THE  SECOND  OFFER  45 

kee  Doodle  Glory.  I  have  heard  a  lot  about  it,  and 
I  am  frightfully  curious  by  nature." 

Tom  was  frankly  astonished.  He  knew  that  the 
sensation  of  the  ore  strike  in  his  mine  was  no  longer 
a  matter  of  absorbing  interest  to  any  one,  and  so  he 
said :  "Why,  that's  ancient  history." 

"Perhaps  to  you,  the  Americans.  But  not  to  .  .  ." 
The  Baron  checked  himself  quickly.  He  bit  his  lips 
as  if  trying  to  cut  off  the  word  he  had  been  about 
to  pronounce.  He  seemed  strangely  flustered  for  a 
moment,  and  his  English,  usually  so  carefully  modu 
lated,  so  ultra-British  in  every  delicate  shade  of  in 
flection,  suddenly  took  on  a  thick,  rasping,  guttural 
tang. 

"You  see,"  he  stammered,  "the  papers  say  a  good 
deal  about  it,  and  ..." 

Tom  Graves  took  pity  on  the  other's  evident  em 
barrassment.  He  had  no  idea  why  the  man  should  be 
ill  at  ease,  and  he  dismissed  the  fact  of  it  as  some 
mad,  inexplicable,  foreign  idiosyncrasy. 

"Sure,"  he  said,  "that  unknown  metal.  I  get  you," 
and  he  did  not  notice  that  the  German,  at  the  words, 
had  turned  slightly  pale  and  was  studying  him  in 
tently  from  beneath  his  lowered  eyelids. 

"Well,"  Tom  went  on,  "have  a  bit  of  breakfast,  and 
then  I'll  take  you  round  to  the  diggings  and  you  can 
gopher  about  there  to  your  heart's  content." 

He  said  it  laughingly.  For  all  at  once  it  had  struck 
him  that  he  had  every  reason  in  the  world  to  be  glad  of 
the  other's  presence  here  in  the  Hoodoos.  As  long  as 
he  was  here,  he  was  away  from  Bertha  Wedekind,  and 
that  was  a  point  gained.  And  so,  his  native  hospitality 
fired  by  his  love,  his  jealousy,  his  self-interest,  Tom 
set  about  preparing  breakfast.  He  heated  up  the  cof 
fee,  threw  half-a-dozen  slices  of  fat  pork  sizzling  into 


46  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

the  skillet,  and  mixed  the  proper  ingredients  for  that 
.Western  culinary  marvel  prosaically  called  flapjacks. 

"Here  you  are/'  he  said,  when  everything  was  fin 
ished  and,  passing  to  his  guest  the  frying-pan  rilled 
with  pork,  "have  some  mountain  veal !  And  say — " 
laughing,  jovial,  now  thoroughly  at  his  ease,  "don't 
dirty  any  more  plates  than  you  have  to.  Gamble  and 
I  are  taking  turn  and  turn  about,  and  this  is  my  day 
to  cook  and  wash  up  and  get  messy  generally.  Fall 
too,  stranger!" 

Breakfast  finished,  he  took  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede 
to  the  mine  tunnel  and  into  the  hands  of  Gamble  while 
he  returned  to  the  cabin,  sat  himself  upon  a  stone, 
and  smoked,  doing  nothing  successfully  and  bliss 
fully. 

Late  that  night,  after  dinner,  with  their  guest  in 
the  back  room  hunting  in  his  Gladstone  bag  for  cigars, 
Gamble  turned  to  Tom  Graves  with  a  sudden,  hurried 
whisper. 

"Did  you  say  that  fellow's  an  officer  in  the  Ger 
man  cavalry?" 

"Sure.     Why?" 

"Well,  he  knows  as  much  and  more  about  mining 
engineering  than  I  do  and,  believe  me,  I  am  no  slouch 
at  the  game.  He  .  .  ." 

"Shut  up !"  whispered  Tom. 

But  it  was  too  late.  The  Baron  had  come  into  the 
front  room.  He  must  have  overheard  the  last  sen 
tence,  at  least  caught  the  sense  and  drift  of  it,  for 
he  laughed,  very  much  like  a  schoolboy  surprised  in 
a  naughty  prank. 

"I  do  know  mines,  don't  I,  Mr.  Gamble  ?"  he  asked. 
"Well,  I  am  not  ashamed  of  it.  You  see,  we  Prus 
sian  army  chaps,  while  we  like  our  career,  of  course 
get  tired  of  drill,  drill,  drill  all  the  time.  We  get 


THE  SECOND  OFFER  47 

bored  to  death  with  saber  and  lance  and  martingale. 
We  have  to  have  relaxation  of  some  sort,  you  know, 
and  I  have  always  taken  a  great  deal  of  interest  in 
what's  going  on  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth/' 

"You're  certainly  some  little  expert,"  commented 
Gamble  admiringly,  and  the  Baron  inclined  his  head. 

"German  efficiency,"  he  replied,  and  it  was  difficult 
to  tell  if  he  was  poking  fun  at  himself  or  at  the 
others. 

Gamble  went  to  bed  early  leaving  Tom  and  his  guest 
in  front  of  the  blazing,  crackling  log  fire.  Tom  was 
sleepy  and  happy.  He  was  about  to  doze  off  wrhen 
the  German's  words  startled  him  into  immediate  and 
full  wake  fulness : 

"How  much  will  you  take  for  the  Yankee  Doodle 
Glory?" 

The  American  looked  up  sharply.  "You  want  to 
buy?" 

"Yes.  Outright.  For  cash.  Name  your  figure, 
Mr.  Graves." 

The  latter  did  not  like  the  other's  abrupt,  dragoon 
ing  manner,  and — he  was  a  good  poker  player.  He 
folded  his  hands  behind  his  head,  kicked  out  his  feet 
towards  the  full  warmth  of  the  fire,  and  yawned 
elaborately. 

"I  don't  know  as  I  want  to  sell,"  he  said  finally, 
with  utter  carelessness.  "I  guess  I'm  sort  of  stuck 
on  these  old  Hoodoos.  No.  I  don't  know  as  I  want 
to  sell  powerfully  bad.'7 

"Five  hundred  thousand  ?"  asked  the  Baron,  taking 
out  check  book  and  fountain  pen. 

Tom  grinned  mischievously.  "Oh,  you  carry  your 
munition  along,  do  you?  Well,  it's  no  go.  I  don't 
want  to  sell.  At  least  I  don't  know  that  I  do  ... 
yet!" 


48  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"When  will  you  know?" 

"Perhaps  next  week.     Perhaps  never." 

The  Baron  gave  a  short,  impatient  laugh.  "I 
thought  you  Americans  were  such  quick,  sharp  busi 
nessmen." 

"I'm  riot  a  businessman.  I'm  an  ex-cowpuncher, 
and  I've  all  the  time  in  the  world.  Let's  turn  in." 

"Verdammt  noch  'mail"  The  Baron  lapsed  into 
hectic,  vituperative  German.  But  he  controlled  him 
self.  "I  make  that  offer  six  hundred  thousand,"  he 
continued. 

Tom  Graves  rose. 

"Quit  tilting  the  jackpot,"  he  advised.  "I'm  not 
playing;"  and  that  was  all  the  answer  the  other  could 
get  out  of  him  though  that  night.  All  the  following 
week  he  returned  to  the  attack,  periodically  raising  his 
bid  until  he  had  reached  an  even  million,  and  even 
Tom  kicked  himself  for  a  stubborn  fool.  "But,"  as 
he  explained  it  afterwards,  "I  never  sell  when  the 
other  fellow  is  too  damned  anxious  to  buy.  It  may 
be  punk  business,  but  it's  me!" 

At  the  end  of  the  week  Tom  decided  to  return  to 
Spokane. 

"You  can  stay  here.  Gamble'll  take  good  care  of 
you,"  he  told  the  Baron. 

But  the  German  said  he  would  come  along  to  town, 
and  all  the  way  to  Spokane  he  repeated  his  offer  for 
the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory,  raising  his  bid  time  and 
again,  and  finally  driving  Tom  into  an  access  of  Amer 
ican  abruptness. 

"Stow  that  nagging.  You  aren't  my  wife,  nor  my 
mother-in-law,  and  you  aren't  even  my  side-kick.  I 
don't  want  to  sell,  and  hell,  brimstone,  and  damna 
tion  can't  budge  me  when  I've  made  up  my  mind, 
see?" 


THE  SECOND  OFFER  49 

Von  Gotz-Wrede  choked  down  an  angry  word. 
Then  he  was  again  his  old,  suave  self. 

"Well,  never  mind.  I  shall  ask  you  just  once 
more  .  .  ." 

"Look  here!     I  told  you  I  .  .  ." 

"Just  once  more  .  .  .  before  I  leave  Spokane. 
You  see,  I  shall  leave  here  to-morrow  night." 

"Oh,  you're  off?" 

"Yes,  my  leave  is  over.  Back  to  the  regiment,  and 
the  drill." 

Tom  smiled.  He  thought  of  Bertha.  Here  was 
one  rival  at  least  eliminated  for  good.  So  he  essayed 
a  mild,  white  lie.  "I'm  mighty  sorry  to  see  you 

go." 

"And  I  am  sorry  to  leave.  I've  had  a  ripping  time. 
Thanks  for  your  hospitality,  and  if  ever  you  come  to 
Germany  .  .  ." 

"Me — to  Germany?"  Tom  Graves  laughed  out 
loud  at  the  idea.  "Say— I  don't  .  .  ." 

"You  never  know  what  may  happen.  Anyway, 
if  ever  you  happen  to  be  in  Berlin,  look  me  up."  He 
was  again  the  soul  of  sincerity.  "We  like  men  like 
you  over  there.  Strong  men,  big,  powerful,  daring, 
upstanding;  and  there's  one  or  two  things  you  could 
teach  us  ..." 

"Nothing  except  riding  a  little  pony,"  smiled  Tom. 

"Exactly.  And  that's  a  lot.  You  see,  I  am  in  the 
cavalry,  call  myself  a  good  horseman,  have  ridden  for 
my  regiment  at  Olympia,  in  London.  But  compared 
to  you  .  .  .  My  word!" 

And  the  young  Westerner,  touched  in  his  weak  spot, 
decided  that  the  man  was  not  so  bad  after  all  and 
thought  to  himself  that  perhaps  he  would  let  him  have 
the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory.  There  was  really  no  sense 
in  not  selling. 


50  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

But,  since  he  considered  Martin  Wedekind  his  men 
tor  in  all  things  financial,  he  ran  out  to  the  house  in 
Lincoln  Addition  that  evening  and  put  the  case  be 
fore  his  friend,  in  all  its  details,  including  the  Baron's 
extraordinary  knowledge  of  mines  and  mining. 

"Shall  I  sell?"  he  asked. 

Wedekind  shook  his  head.  "No.  Don't  sell 
to  .  .  ." 

"To  the  Baron?" 

"To  any  German!  To  anybody  unless  you  know 
exactly  who  and  what  he  is.  No,  no!  Don't  you 
ask  me  to  give  you  any  reasons.  Just  do  what  I  tell 
you,  will  you?" 

"Sure!" 

And  so,  the  next  day,  when  Herr  von  Gotz-Wrede 
called  on  him  for  his  final  decision  he  was  met  by  such 
a  staunch,  hard  "No!  I  won't  sell,  and  that's  flat!" 
that  the  German  gave  up. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Graves,"  he  said,  waving  a  careless 
hand.  "All  right.  Only,  please  keep  it  to  yourself. 
Don't  speak  about  that  offer  I  made  you.  People 
would  think  me  slightly — oh — touched." 

"But  why  do  you  .  .  .    ?" 

"I  am  a  rich  man,  I  have  hobbies,  and  I  like  to 
gratify  them.  That's  all.  By  the  way,"  shaking 
hands  again,  "do  come  over  to  Germany  and  look 
me  up." 

"No.     I  don't  want  to  travel." 

"Don't  be  so  provincial.  Come  on.  You're  a  rich 
man,  a  man  of  leisure.  Do  come.  Promise  me  that 
you'll  come!" 

"No!" 

"I  shan't  take  no  for  an  answer."  He  lifted  a 
threatening  finger.  "Honestly,  unless  you  promise 
me,  I  am  going  to  stay  right  here  in  Spokane,  and 


THE  SECOND  OFFER  51 

nag  you.  every  day  about  selling  the  Yankee  Doodle 
Glory !" 

"All  right,  all  right!"  laughed  Tom.     "I  promise!" 

"You'll  come  this  year?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  promise  anything  you  wish  as  long's 
you  shut  up  about  that  mine !" 

"Thanks.  That's  corking.  Here's  my  address. 
'No.  67,  Xantener  Strasse,  Berlin,  W!  I'll  be  mighty 
glad  to  see  you  over  there !" 

And  there  was  such  a  charming,  sincere  smile  on 
his  lips  and  in  his  eyes  that  Tom  decided  all  his  for 
mer  antipathy  had  been  nothing  but  rank  envy  and 
jealousy;  and  so  he  grasped  the  German's  hand  and 
cried  enthusiastically : 

"You  bet  I'llconie!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

EASTWARD   HO ! 

TOM  GRAVES  went  abroad  rather  sooner  than  he  had 
imagined  he  would  at  the  time  he  had  given  his  rash 
promise  to  Baron  Horst  von  Gotz-Wrede. 

And  it  was  Bertha  Wedekind's  fault. 

About  a  week  after  the  German's  departure,  think 
ing  there  was  now  a  clear  field  and  no  favors,  he 
decided  to  ask  her  once  more  to  be  his  wife.  She 
had  been  nice  to  him  the  last  few  days  and,  being 
in  love  and  therefore  self-centered,  there  was  but  one 
construction  he  could  put  on  her  shifting  mood — she 
was  beginning  to  like  him  better;  rather,  she  was  drift 
ing  back  into  that  chummy,  simple  sympathy,  not  un 
mixed  by  tenderness,  that  had  been  between  them  the 
year  before  on  the  Killicott  ranch,  before  she  had 
had  her  head  turned  by  the  Prussian  officers  whom 
she  had  met  at  her  uncle's  house  in  Berlin. 

It  was  on  a  Saturday  night,  and  the  Country  Club 
was  giving  its  weekly  hop.  More  than  one  couple, 
tired  of  dancing,  had  sought  the  seclusion  of  the 
great,  sweeping  veranda  that  framed  the  Club  build 
ing  on  all  sides  to  catch  the  breeze  that  boomed  down 
from  far  Hay  den  Lake,  laden  with  the  sweetness  of 
wood  flowers  and  the  tang  of  wet  pine. 

"Let's  go  out.  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  said  Tom, 
and  he  was  so  masterful  that  Bertha  took  his  arm 
and  went  without  a  word. 

She  sat  down  on  a  rocker,  and  he  remained  stand- 

52 


EASTWARD  HO!  53 

ing  in  front  of  her,  looming1  up  square  and  heavy  and 
manly  in  the  drifting  moonlight. 

"Bertha,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "a  few  weeks  ago 
when  I  was  going  to  tell  you  that  I  love  you,  you 
did  not  let  me  finish.  You  told  me  that  you  .  .  ." 

"I  told  you  that  I  would  not  marry  you,  nor  any 
other  American."  She  was  not  looking  at  him,  but 
studied  her  tiny,  narrow  foot,  arching  the  instep. 

"You  will  listen  to  me  now,"  he  went  on.  "You 
see,  I  love  you.  I  am  mad  about  you,  just  plumb 
mad.  I — why,  girl,  there  isn't  a  thing  in  the  world 
I  wouldn't  do  for  you.  Perhaps  I  am  just  a  fool, 
just  a  silly,  superstitious  fool.  But  last  year,  back 
on  the  Killicott,  when  I  looked  at  you,  pretty  and 
dainty  and  well-educated  and  the  daughter  of  a  rich 
man,  when  I  looked  at  myself,  just  a  poor  horse 
wrangler  with  not  a  cent  in  my  jeans,  nothing  but 
my  sixty  bucks  or  so  to  live  on,  I  used  to  pray.  Yes ! 
I  prayed  to  God  to  give  me  money !" 

"Tom!" 

"Wrong  to  pray  for  money,  you  think?  Not  a  bit 
of  it!  For  when  I  prayed  for  money,  I  prayed  for 
what's  best,  what's  most  strong,  most  decent  in 
me!  My  love  for  you!  You  see,  I'm  not  alto 
gether  a  sentimental  jackass.  I  know  that  even  the 
truest  love  in  the  world  can't  make  a  go  of  it  on  sixty 
bucks  a  month,  that  even  the  truest  love  in  the  world 
has  got  to  eat  and  drink  and — "  smiling  and  leveling 
a  shameless  thumb  at  her  dainty  little  dance  frock 
of  lavender  tulle,  girdled  with  a  shimmering  length 
of  blue  and  silver  brocade,  "buy  one  of  those  things 
once  in  a  while.  Wait,"  as  she  started  to  rise,  "I 
haven't  finished  yet.  My  words  are — oh — sort  of  in 
adequate.  If  I  had  you  out  on  the  range  now,  with 
the  wind  in  my  face  and  a  little  pony  between  my 


54  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

knees,  I  guess  I  could  speak  to  you.  But  here,  with 
these  duds  on — "  ruefully  indicating  his  sober  black 
and  white  dress  suit,  "well,  I  feel  cramped  and  clumsy 
and  very  much  like  a  darn  fool.  But,  don't  you 
see  .  .  ."  and,  suddenly,  the  inner  worth,  the  inner 
passion  of  the  man,  shone  in  his  eyes.  His  words 
caught  the  glamor  that  shone  from  youth,  from  love, 
from  courage,  from  revival  of  old  hopes,  raising  of 
new  banners,  and  soared  up  to  something  closely  re 
sembling  a  lyric  pitch:  "I  worship  you,  dear!  I 
adore  you  like — like  a  queen!  I  love  you  soul  and 
heart  and  body!  Why,  girl,  I  hear  your  voice  at 
night,  and  it  haunts  me  in  my  dreams.  I've  smelt  the 
open  range  in  springtime  when  all  the  little  unknown 
flowers  peep  up  overnight  and  make  the  air  sweet  and 
soft — and  you,  your  presence,  leaves  just  such  a 
fragrance  behind!"  He  gave  a  short  laugh.  "Talk 
like  a  poet,  don't  I?  But — you  see,  dear — I'm  just 
mad  about  you,  just  plumb  mad!" 

"You  must  fight  against  it,"  said  Bertha,  with  all 
the  priggishness  of  youth. 

"Why  should  I?  Haven't  I  got  a  right  to  love 
you?  Can  I  help  that  I  love  you?"  and  he  went  on, 
reckless  of  speech,  until  his  passion  had  spent  itself. 

Bertha  gave  a  little  sigh. 

"Tom,"  she  said,  "I  am  fond  of  you.  I  like  you 
like  a  ..." 

"If  you  say  that  you  like  me  like  a  brother  I  am 
going  to  do  something  reckless !  I  love  you — nor  do 
I  love  you  like  a  sister.  I  love  you  with  a  real,  honest 
flesh-and-blood  love  and  .  .  ." 

"Tom !"  She  looked  up  and  saw  the  expression  in 
his  eyes.  Instinctively  she  lowered  her  voice.  "I  am 
sorry,  Tom,  very,  very  sorry.  But  .  .  ."  she  made 
a  little  gesture. 


EASTWARD  HO!  55 

He  clenched  his  fists  that  the  knuckles  stretched 
white. 

"It's  no  go,  eh?"  he  asked.  "It's  because  of 
that  .  .  .  that  German  Baron — damn  him  .  .  ." 

"You  must  not  swear!  I  won't  have  it.  You — 
you  are  rude  and  ill-bred  and  .  .  ." 

"All  right,  all  right!"  Tom's  temper  was  fast  get 
ting  the  better  of  him.  "I  understand  all  right.  Your 
head  has  been  turned  by  those — what  does  your  father 
call  them? — those  brass-souled,  saber-rattling  coy 
otes  .  .  ." 

"Father  doesn't  know !" 

"You  bet  your  life  he  does !  He  knew  them  in  his 
youth.  He  hasn't  got  a  bit  of  use  for  those  brag 
ging,  swaggering,  square-head  Dutch  officers  .  .  ." 

She  rose,  fire  in  her  eyes. 

"You  are  insulting  me,"  she  cried.  "I  am  a  Ger 
man  myself !" 

"Don't  you  believe  it!  You're  a  plain,  every-day, 
field-and-garden  American — just  like  me,  just  like 
your  Dad — and  that's  one  of  the  many  reasons  why 
I'm  so  crazy  about  you." 

"'You — you  are  ..."  The  girl  was  near  to  cry 
ing.  "I  hate  you,  hate  you !" 

"All  right.  I  guess  you've  made  up  your  mind  to 
marry  one  of  those  jackanapes  with  their  pink-and- 
green  monkey  jackets,  the  lightning  conductor  spikes 
on  their  helmets,  their  haw-haw  manners  and  the  bits 
of  window  glass  stuck  in  their  eyes.  You  .  .  ."  quite 
suddenly  he  recollected  himself.  He  bent  his  head, 
like  a  man  submitting  to  the  judgment  of  Fate.  "I 
beg  your  pardon,  Bertha.  I  lost  my  temper. 
God  ...  I  love  you  so  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  you  again  .  .  .     Never !" 

"You  won't !" 


56  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

And  he  was  off  at  a  half  run.  He  grabbed  coat 
and  hat,  jumped  into  a  taxicab,  and  drove  home. 

fThere  he  took  down  the  telephone  receiver,  called 
for  Pacific  6589,  and  startled  Johnny  Wall,  the  jolly, 
plump  little  Canadian  who  directed  the  local  fortunes 
of  the  Atlantic  steamship  lines,  out  of  a  sound  and 
dreamless  sleep. 

"Get  me  a  passage,  Johnny!     Immediately!0 

"What  are  you  talking  about  ?     Are  you  drunk  ?" 

"I  am  not.     I  am  mad!" 

"You  sound  like  it  .  .  ."  Wall  was  about  to  slam 
down  the  receiver,  when  Tom  begged  him  frantically 
to  wait. 

"I'm  not  mad  the  way  you  mean.  I  am  quite  sober 
and  quite  sane/' 

"Well— what  do  you  want?" 

"I  want  to  go  to  Europe  !"• 

"When?" 

"Immediately.  Get  me  a  ticket  or  whatever  you 
call  the  fool  things.  And,  Johnny,  not  a  word  to 
anybody.  I  am  making  a  sneak!" 

"All  right,  Tom.  I'll  fix  you  up.  Come  to  my 
office  in  the  morning." 

And  so,  the  next  afternoon,  after  a  visit  to  the 
Old  National  Bank  where  he  arranged  with  Donald 
McLeod,  the  black-haired  Scotch  cashier,  for  trans 
mission  of  funds,  he  took  train  for  New  York.  He 
did  not  even  say  good-by  to  Martin  Wedekind  for 
fear  of  running  into  Bertha. 

But  Wedekind  found  out  about  Tom's  departure 
just  the  same,  for  Johnny  Wall  blabbed,  and  when 
Tom  Graves,  who  had  four  days  in  New  York  be 
fore  his  steamer  sailed,  called  at  the  steamship  office 
for  his  berth,  he  found  there  a  special  delivery  letter 
from  Wedekind,  wishing  him  luck  on  the  journey, 


EASTWARD  HO!  57 

and  enclosing  some  lines  of  introduction  to  his  brother, 
Heinrich,  in  Berlin. 

"I  haven't  seen  Heinrich  for  years,  in  fact  not  since 
I  was  a  young  lad,"  added  Martin  Wedekind.  "I 
did  not  like  him  then;  he  was  the  regular  Prussian 
incarnation  of  beef  and  brawn  and  damn  your  neigh 
bors*  feelings  and  your  neighbors'  pet  corns.  I  don't 
think  that  thirty-odd  years  in  the  army  have  im 
proved  him  any.  But  he  is  a  colonel  of  cavalry,  and 
since  you  are  going  to  Europe,  you  might  as  well  see 
all  the  phases  of  life  there.  God  bless  you,  my  boy!" 

Tom  boarded  the  North  German  Lloyd  liner  Augs 
burg  at  noon,  on  Saturday. 

An  hour  or  two  later,  the  steward  handed  him  a 
telegram  from  Spokane. 

It  read : 

"Don't  sell  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory. 

"(Signed)     WEDEKIND." 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  MEETING 

"MISTER  GRAVES!" 

The  voice  was  a  woman's,  low,  musical,  and  irate; 
and  Tom  turned  quickly. 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  first  day  out.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  Tom  was  away  from  his  na 
tive,  Northwestern  heath  and  confronted  by  a  scene 
that  was  not  framed  by  lanky  pine  and  frayed,  ribbed 
rock,  by  rolling  sage  land  and  green-thundering  water 
fall,  studded  with  little  towns  set  flat,  like  jewels, 
into  the  surrounding  plains  and  straddling  in  an  arro 
gant,  devil-may-care  manner  in  all  the  cardinal  points 
of  the  compass,  as  if  to  advertise  to  newcomers  fresh 
from  the  East  that,  if  they  would  but  wait  a  year  or 
two,  the  town  would  fill  up  and  grow  to  the  next 
range,  and  even  beyond. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Tom  felt  the  lap  and 
surge  of  salt  water  beneath  his  feet  and  so  he  had 
been  leaning  over  the  top  deck  rail  looking  over  the 
great  Atlantic  that  chopped  towards  the  crooked, 
peaked  sky  line  with  an  immense  roll;  and,  the  ship 
giving  a  ruffianly  lurch  at  the  same  moment,  he  nearly 
lost  his  balance  and  fell  on  the  plank  deck  when  he 
recognized  the  speaker's  face. 

"Well!     Bertha!     I'll  be  eternally  razzle-dazzled !" 

He  held  out  a  big,  honest  hand  to  Miss  Wedekind, 
who  stood  there,  dressed  in  short  plaid  skirt,  low- 
heeled  brown  shoes,  tweed  hat,  and  a  silk  blazer  of 
gold  and  black  stripes. 

58 


THE  MEETING  59 

She  waved  the  proffered  hand  aside.  Her  violet 
eyes  eddied  up  with  a  slow  flame  of  anger. 

"I  don't  want  to  shake  hands  with  you!"  she  said. 

"Eh?"  Tom  Graves  did  not  believe  his  ears. 
"Aren't  you  glad  to  see  a  face  from  home?  Why, 
say,  I  am  plumb  tickled  to  see  you.  I  ..." 

The  girl  stamped  her  foot. 

"I  am — oh — angry!"  she  cried.  "Frightfully  an 
gry!  What  do  you  mean  by  persecuting  me,  by  fol 
lowing  me  when  you  know  you  are  not  wanted?" 

"Me — persecute — you?"  stammered  Tom.  "Me — 
follow — you  ?" 

"Exactly !  Don't  play  the  stupid !  I  took  the  first 
train  for  New  York,  the  first  steamship  out  of  New 
York,  as  soon  as  Uncle  Heinrich  cabled  that  his 
mother,  my  grandmother,  was  sick,  near  death,  and 
wanted  to  see  me  once  more.  And  here  you  .  .  . 
Have  you  no  shame,  no  decency?" 

"Say,  Bertha,"  stammered  Tom.  "Honest  to  God, 
I  don't  know  anything  of  what  you're  saying.  I  guess 
I  left  Spokane  a  few  days  before  you  did.  Why,  I 
spent  half  a  week  in  New  York,  just  fretting  and 
fuming  to  get  away.  Didn't  your  father  tell  you  ?" 

"He  dM  not !  And  I  don't  believe  you !  No,  I  do 
not!  You  are  insufferable.  Can't  you  take  no  for 
an  answer?  Do  you  think,  do  you  imagine  for  a 
moment,  that  you  can  win  me  by  such  silly,  ill-bred, 
rude  persecution?  Do  you  think  you  can  bully  me 
into  marrying  you  ?  Haven't  you  got  any  more  man 
hood  than  that?" 

"Look  here,  Bertha  .  .  ." 

"You  heard  what  I  said,  Tom  Graves.  And  if  you 
dare  say  a  word  to  me  on  board  this  ship,  if  you  as 
much  as  smile  at  me,  I  am  going  to  complain  to  the 
captain.  There!"  and  she  swept  off  while  he  looked 


60  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

after  her,  cap  in  hand,  scratching  his  red  hair,  amaze 
ment  and  grief  and  hurt  pride  in  his  honest  features, 
finally  relieving  his  injured  feelings  by  a  tremendous : 

"Well,  I'll  be  .  .  ." 

"I  say!  Don't  speak  out  your  thoughts  so  freely, 
my  dear  sir !"  Another  voice  came  to  his  ear,  a  man's 
voice  this  time  and  frankly,  aggressively  British. 
"Never  say  you'll  be  damned  or  anything  as  rash 
as  that  before  you've  tried  some  of  that  ripping  medi 
cine  against  it  they  sell  down  across  the  saloon  bar, 
what?" 

Tom  looked  up. 

The  speaker  was  a  young  man  about  his  own  age, 
his  own  height,  though  a  little  broader.  His  hair  (he 
wore  his  cap  in  his  hand)  was  honey-colored  and 
neatly  parted  down  the  center;  his  sack  suit  was 
tightly  tailored  and  of  an  extravagant,  hairy,  green 
Harris  tweed;  his  heavy  brogues  were  topped  by 
brown  cloth  spats;  and  his  face,  round,  rosy,  blue- 
eyed,  open,  was  ornamented  by  a  tiny  mustache  and  an 
immense,  gold-rimmed  monocle. 

The  final  seal  to  this  typical  specimen  of  traveling 
Briton  was  given  by  a  short  briar  pipe  clamped  be 
tween  his  teeth;  and  when  Tom  Graves  looked  at 
him,  dazed,  rather  overcome,  the  Englishman  con 
tinued  : 

"My  name's  Vyvyan,  if  you  want  to  stand  upon 
ceremonies,"  giving  him  his  card. 

Tom  took  it  and  read  thereon : 

"LORD  HERBERT  VYVYAN 

Bury  St-Edmonds." 

"Mr. — Bury  St-Edmonds?"  stammered  Tom. 
"Gad,  no!     That's  my  address,  home  in  England. 
Vyvyan — that's  my  name!" 


THE  MEETING  61 

"Oh-— mine's  Graves— Tom  Graves !" 

Now,  for  the  excuse  of  the  young  Westerner,  be  it 
said  that  all  his  life,  though  he  had  met  plenty  of 
Englishmen,  in  the  Inland  Empire,  he  had  been  fa 
miliar  only  with  the  two  types  who  abound  there :  the 
English  worker,  and  the  English  wastrel. 

The  former  are  the  men,  men  of  all  classes,  who 
come  either  direct  to  the  Northwest  or  via  Canada 
and  who,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  are  less  ready 
to  take  out  their  citizenship  papers  than  the  Continental 
Europeans,  mix  with  the  native  life,  business  and  so 
cial,  as  oil  mixes  with  oil,  thus  accounting  for  the  fact, 
never  yet  sufficiently  dwelt  upon,  that  though  in  the 
United  States  there  are  German-Americans,  Irish- 
Americans,  Italian-Americans,  and  what-not,  there  is 
no  organized,  or  unorganized,  English-American 
party,  or  vote,  or  even  consciousness.  The  English 
man,  he  of  the  worker  type,  blends  with  the  civic 
and  national  life,  and  his  son  is  altogether  an  Amer 
ican. 

Tom  had  also  met  and  drunk  with  and  ridden  with 
his  share  of  the  second  type  of  English,  the  wastrels, 
mostly  remittance  men  who  had  left  their  country  for 
their  country's  good  and  who  received  a  quarterly 
stipend  from  home  as  long  as  they  remained  abroad. 
There  was  a  vague  rumor  that  some  of  them  were  the 
sons  of  noblemen,  earls  and  viscounts  and  so  forth, 
all  called  "dooks"  for  short  by  the  gentry  of  the  range, 
and  they  were  not  bad  fellows.  At  least  they  were 
plucky. 

But  this  man,  Vyvyan,  was  decidedly  not  an  Eng 
lish  worker,  and  just  as  decidedly  not  an  English  wast 
rel — and :  he  was  a  lord ;  and  Tom,  out  of  the  ingen 
uousness  of  his  heart,  blurted  out  a  great,  loud,  tact 
less: 


62  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Say,  for  the  love  of  Mike,  are  you  really  a  lord — 
honest  to  God?" 

"Right-oh !"  came  the  cheerful  reply. 

"One  of  those  guys  who  wear  silly  little  crowns  and 
a  whole  lot  of  purple  velvet  and  white  fur?"  pursued 
Tom,  remembering  what  he  had  learned  in  the  movie 
theaters  of  Spokane. 

"Right-oh  again!"  Then,  seeing  that  Tom  was 
studying  him  intensely:  "I  say,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  nothing!"  Tom  scratched  his  head.  "But  I 
always  thought — have  always  been  given  to  under 
stand  that  all  lords  are  .  .  .  Oh  .  .  ." 

"Silly,  damned  jackasses?  Right-oh,  the  third 
time!  I  am  one.  You  have  no  idea  what  a  silly  ass 
I  am — and  wait  till  you  meet  my  first  brother,  the 
Duke !  Gad !  And  now,  s'pose  we  go  down  and  see 
what  the  maritime  Ganymede  has  to  offer  in  the  line 
of  mixed  drinks." 

Half  an  hour  later,  sampling  the  third  of  a  series 
of  cocktails,  "there  are  three  things  I  admired  most 
tremendously  in  America,"  Vyvyan  confided:  "Your 
way  of  preparing  oysters,  your  way  of  mixing  drinks, 
and  the  way  your  women  clothe  their  jolly  little  toot 
sies."  Tom  Graves  had  already  formed  a  sincere  lik 
ing  for  the  young  Englishman,  and  it  was  evident  that 
the  latter  returned  the  feeling. 

For,  with  frank  and  talkative  naivete,  he  had  told 
the  American  all  about  himself. 

"I'm  in  disgrace,"  he  said;  "that's  why  I  am  tryin' 
to  perk  up  a  bit  alcoholically." 

"In  disgrace?" 

"Right.     You  see,  I  am  a  diplomatist." 

"You — a  diplomatist?"  Tom  laughed  at  the 
thought. 


THE  MEETING  63 

"Can't  blame  you  for  laughing,"  sighed  Vyvyan. 
"I  am  rather  rotten  at  the  game.  Was  'steenth  sec 
retary  at  the  Washington  Embassy  and  just  got  the 
jolly  old  boot  for  most  frightful  incompetency." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  next  ?" 

"Go  home  and  devil  my  brother's  soul.  He's  the 
Duke,  y'know,  and  has  lots  of  what  you  Americans 
call  pull.  I  s'pose  he'll  get  me  some  secretaryship  in 
one  of  those  interesting  and  unwashed  Balkan  princi 
palities,  but  he'll  have  to  wait  a  while  until  this  Wash 
ington  mess  blows  over.  He  won't  like  it  a  bit.  You 
see,  I'm  not  over-flush  with  the  ready;  rather  stony,  in 
fact,  and  my  brother  is  as  stingy  as  anything.  Never 
mind,  old  dear,  have  one  more  of  the  liquid  ?" 

"No,  thanks.     I've  had  a  nose  full." 

"Right.  Let's  go  down  and  eat.  Ship's  filled  with 
Germans  and  Austrians  and  all  that  sort,  eatin'  peas 
with  steel  knives  and  inhalin'  soup  through  their  jolly 
old  ears,  so  we  two  might  as  well  sit  together  and 
show  'em  a  solid  Anglo-Saxon  front,  what  ?  Let's  go 
feed!" 

That  day  and  the  following  saw  Tom  Graves  and 
Lord  Vyvyan  continuously  together.  Occasionally  the 
former  saw  Bertha  Wedekind,  usually  accompanied  by 
a  couple  of  tall,  lean  Germans  who,  the  Englishman 
said,  belonged  to  the  German  Embassy  in  Washington. 
Tom  was  jealous,  but  he  had  to  grin  and  bear  it.  He 
knew  how  stubborn  the  girl  was  and  that  she  would 
doubtless  live  up  to  her  threat  and  complain  to  the 
captain  if  he  tried  to  address  her. 

He  spoke  to  but  few  of  the  other  passengers.  He 
was  garrulous  and  sociable  by  nature.  Too,  he  had 
always  liked  the  Germans  whom  he  had  known  in  the 
Northwest,  chiefly  Martin  Wedekind,  though,  when 


64  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

thinking  of  the  latter,  he  never  thought  of  him  as 
anything  but  a  straight  American.  But  he  found  it 
impossible  to  get  on  with  those  aboard  the  Augsburg. 

They  were  mostly  German-Americans  from  New 
York,  Missouri,  and  the  Middle  West,  bound  on  a 
visit  to  the  Fatherland,  and  while  the  majority  of 
them  wore  tiny  American  flags  in  their  buttonholes 
and  several  had  broken  into  hectic  dithyrambs  as  the 
ship  passed  the  Statue  of  Liberty,  they  became  less 
American  and  more  German  with  every  league  the 
steamer  throbbed  across  the  Atlantic. 

The  first  day  out,  a  short,  gray-haired,  dyspeptic 
butcher  from  Cincinnati  said  with  a  sigh  of  satisfac 
tion: 

"Na,  Gott  sei  Dank,  noch  'ne  Wo  die  und  dann  sind 
wir,  wo  es  nicht  jeder  Lausekerl  fur  seine  Pflicht  und 
Schuldigkeit  halt  seinen  Nachbarn  ordentlich  zu  bemo- 
geln!" — a  nasty  reflection  on  American  business  mor 
als,  which  was  passed  over  with  a  smile  as  an  exuber 
ance  of  homesickness,  an  exuberance,  too,  of  Teutonic 
humor. 

Gradually,  one  by  one,  the  American  flags  disap 
peared  from  buttonholes  to  be  replaced  in  isolated 
cases  by  the  black-and-white  of  Prussia  and  the  black- 
white-red  of  the  German  Empire. 

Three  days  out,  a  stodgy,  immense,  keen-eyed  St. 
Louis  brewer,  with  diamonds  in  his  cuff  links,  his  shirt, 
and  his  necktie  (diamonds,  as  Tom  said  to  himself, 
earned  and  paid  for  in  America)  complained  to  the 
third  officer  that  the  library  in  the  reading-room  con 
tained  "noddings  but  Yankee  drash.  Vy  don't  you  haf 
some  goot  Cherman  liderachoor  instead  of  all  dat 
Yankee  blodsinnf  Somedings  like  de  Gartenlaube,  or 
de  Jugend,  or  Simplicissimusf,  You  oughta  haf  been 


THE  MEETING  65 

ashamed  mit  yourself  calling  dis  one  Cherman  shib, 
nicht  ivahr?" 

Thus  it  grew.  Thus  they  showed  with  what  solem 
nity  they  regarded  the  oath  they  had  sworn  at  the 
time  when  they  had  taken  out  final  citizenship  papers ; 
and  on  the  fourth  day  out  matters  came  to  a  head — "a 
jolly  bloody  head/'  as  Lord  Vyvyan  commented. 

For  Tom  Graves  got  into  an  argument  with  a  pale, 
pimply-faced  New  York  bank  clerk  by  the  name  of 
Franz  Neumann. 

The  latter  addressed  Tom  in  German.  Tom 
grinned,  and  said  that  he  had  only  bought  himself  a 
German  grammar  two  days  before  the  Augsburg  had 
left  port,  that  he  was  working  hard,  but  had  not  as 
yet  mastered  more  than  about  fifteen  words.  Where 
upon  the  clerk  replied,  talking  raspingly  through  his 
nose,  that  "Bei  Gott!  it  was  an  infernal  arrogance! 
What  did  he  mean  by  sailing  on  a  German  ship  and 
expecting  the  Germans  to  talk  English  to  him?  He 
was  a  damned  so-and-so,  also  thus-and-thus  American 
this-and-that  .  .  ." 

An  argument  wound  up  by  Tom's  fist  descending 
in  a  cruel  and  thumping  curve  on  Herr  Neumann's 
nose;  by  a  running  together  of  stewards  and  passen 
gers;  a  raising  of  voices  and  avenging  Teutonic  fists; 
a  blowzy  Milwaukee  ex-cook  crying:  "Ach!  Dieser 
brutale  Amerikaner!  Schmeisst  den  Kerl  ins  Was* 
ser!"  and,  finally,  Lord  Vyvyan  coming  to  the  rescue, 
leveling  a  few  telling  blows  at  the  St.  Louis  brewer 
who  had  made  a  rear-guard  attack  against  the  West 
erner,  and  leading  the  latter  away  with  soothing  words 
and  gestures : 

"I  say,  have  a  drink,  old  top.  Now  .  .  .  No,  you 
won't,"  as  Tom,  hearing  the  jeers  of  clerk  and  ex-cook 


66  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

and  brewer,  turned,  eyes  puckered,  jaw  set,  fists  going 
like  flails,  "don't  get  excited.  Odds  are  against  you. 
Can't  lick  'em  all  together.  Lick  'em  one  by  one,  pres 
ently.  Meanwhile,  have  a  drink.  Have  two  drinks. 
Wow  .  .  .  Steady  she  goes !" 

Tom  fell,  panting,  into  a  chair  in  the  smoking 
saloon. 

"Hell!"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry  that  I  ever  gave  that 
fool  promise  to  that  German  Baron !" 

"What  German  Baron?" 

"Von  Gotz-Wrede!" 

"What  promise?"  the  Englishman  inquired  after  a 
while,  rather  casually,  looking  into  the  amber  depths 
of  his  whisky-and-soda ;  and  Tom  told  him. 

Carried  away,  he  told  him  everything  that  had  hap 
pened  since  his  partner,  Truex,  had  sent  him  the  tele 
gram  with  the  cheering  news  that  he  had  struck  it 
rich  in  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory.  He  mentioned  the 
unknown  metal,  the  offer  by  cable  of  Johannes  Hirsch- 
feld  &  Co.,  in  Berlin,  the  Baron's  arrival  in  Spokane, 
the  second  offer  raised  to  a  million  cash,  Martin  Wede- 
kind's  warning,  and  his  promise  to  visit  Berlin. 

"I  s'pose  you  are  on  your  way  there  now?"  asked 
Lord  Vyvyan. 

"Yes.  I'm  going  to  get  through  with  it.  I  want 
to  get  back  home  just  as  soon  as  I  can  .  .  ." 

"You'd  better,"  said  the  Englishman,  in  a  low  voice, 
half  to  himself ;  and  Tom  looked  up  sharply. 

The  Englishman  was  staring  straight  ahead.  His 
eyes,  usually  so  round  and  innocent  and  ingenuous, 
were  keen,  with  a  hard,  curling  glitter,  like  sun  rays 
on  forged  steel.  His  lips  were  compressed  into  a  thin 
line.  The  whole  man  seemed  different,  changed. 

The  next  moment,  noticing  that  Tom  was  looking 
at  him,  he  was  his  old  self  again.  He  screwed  in  his 


THE  MEETING  67 

monocle.     Something    like    a   mask    of    silliness    de 
scended  upon  his  face. 

"I  say,  old  dear/'  he  drawled,  "let's  have  another 
snifter,  what?" 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  WIRELESS 

HOLDING  on  to  one  of  the  life-boats  just  the  other 
side  of  the  wireless  operator's  hut  on  top  deck,  braced 
against  the  pitch  and  roll  with  straddled  feet  and 
standing  aslant  when  the  gathering  wind  came  in  fits 
and  starts,  Tom  Graves  looked  out  into  the  west,  where 
the  sun  had  died  in  a  flat  disc  of  unhealthy,  decayed 
brown  to  give  way  to  a  dense  bank  of  olive-tinted 
cloud  that  rushed  down  with  the  speed  of  a  stage 
drop,  lay  motionless  upon  the  sea  that  was  like  dirty 
oil,  suddenly  changing  into  a  slow,  immense  roll  tha't 
sent  the  ship  down  a  slope  and  up  again. 

A  moment  later,  with  savage  rapidity,  the  full  force 
of  the  hurricane  struck  the  Augsburg,  and  she  pitched 
crazily  to  leeward,  taking  a  drunken  lurch  into  the 
inky  void,  straightening  again,  again  tripping  like  a 
bulky  matron  on  a  waxed  dancing-floor,  then  riding  up 
with  a  certain  measure  of  heavy,  challenging  grace. 
The  song  of  the  whipped,  tortured  air  came  with  a 
gigantic  roar  and  sob,  and  Tom,  landsman  from  the 
rim  of  his  stetson  to  the  curve  of  his  knees  where  they 
had  gripped  saddle  leather,  decided  that  discretion 
was  the  better  part  of  valor  and  that  the  smoking 
saloon  held  warmth  and  comfort. 

He  turned  to  go. 

Passing  the  wireless  hut,  the  wind  struck  him  in  the 
small  of  his  back  and  he  tumbled  against  the  door. 

68 


THE  WIRELESS  69 

It  was  thus,  quite  by  chance,  that  he  overheard  a  scrap 
of  conversation  which  later  on  caused  him  to  wonder 
and  speculate. 

Inside  the  hut  the  ship's  doctor,  a  young  American, 
was  talking  to  the  wireless  operator. 

"Sorry,"  said  the  latter.  "I  know  you  are  anxious 
to  send  wireless  waves  to  your  best  girl  in  New  York. 
But  the  thing's  out  of  order." 

"Out  of  order?" 

"Yes.  Has  been  for  two  days,  and  we  won't  be 
able  to  fix  it  till  we  make  Bremen.  Makes  no  differ 
ence  though.  She's  a  sound  old  tub." 

"Sure  .  .  ." 

Just  a  scrap  of  talk,  temporarily  forgotten,  yet 
stored  away  in  some  back  cell  of  Tom's  brain,  and 
remembered  an  hour  or  two  later  when,  as  he  was 
washing  in  his  cabin,  Lord  Vyvyan  knocked  at  the 
door,  came  in,  sat  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  narrow 
bed,  and  begged  the  American  to  shake  hands  with 
him. 

"Sure,"  said  Tom,  complying.    "What  for?" 

"To  wish  me  luck.  Regular,  jolly,  sizzling  whirl 
wind  of  luck,  old  cock !" 

"What's  happened?"  laughed  the  Westerner.  "Sat 
in  a  poker  game  with  that  St.  Louis  brewer  and  held 
a  royal  against  his  four  o'  the  kind  and  copped  his 
wad?" 

"Rather  not.     Much  bigger.     Guess  again." 

"Fell  in  love?" 

"My  word,  no!  Can't  afford  to.  I'm  stony,  you 
know.  But" — he  rubbed  his  hands — "my  brother, 
the  Duke,  you  know,  did  a  damned  rapid  bit  of  wire 
pulling.  In  again,  out  again!  Chevied  out  of  the 
Washington  embassy  about  a  week  ago  for  frightful 
incompetence — and  .  .  ." 


70  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"What  ?     Can  your  mysterious  dope !" 

"Chevied  into  a  fat  attacheship — where,  d'you 
imagine  ?" 

"Paris/' 

"No.  Berlin.  Corkin' — what?  Same  bully  old 
place  you're  bound  for.  Just  got  my  appointment  by 
wireless." 

Tom  looked  up  sharply. 

"Did  you  say — by  wireless?" 

"Right-oh.  The  Duke  is  a  terribly  modern  sort  of 
chap.  Takes  to  all  these  jolly  new  inventions  like  a 
fish  to  water." 

"Seems  so,"  rejoined  Tom  dryly. 

He  remembered  the  scrap  of  conversation  he  had 
overheard  on  top  deck :  "Wireless  out  of  order.  Has 
been  for  two  days."  There  was  no  doubt  that  Vyvyan 
was  lying.  But  he  decided  to  keep  the  knowledge  to 
himself.  He  had  an  idea  that  the  diplomatic  game 
was  the  same  as  poker,  and  bluff,  another  word  for 
lying,  is  permissible,  even  virtuous,  if  you  have  sweet 
ened  the  pot  to  the  tail  end  of  your  roll  and  have 
hopes  of  filling  an  inside  straight.  And  ...  He  cut 
off  his  thoughts,  and  stretched  out  a  hearty  hand. 

"Tickled  to  death,  old  man,"  he  said. 

"So  am  I.  Let's  have  a  drink.  By  the  way,  are 
you  going  straight  from  Bremen  to  Berlin  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Fine.  We'll  travel  down  together.  I  have  to  re 
port  to  the  Embassy  immediately.  Frightful  bore, 
though." 

Twenty- four  hours  later,  Bremerhaven  came  out  of 
the  low,  coiling  shore  fog  in  a  neat  checker-board  pat 
tern  of  white  and  gray  and  bister  brown,  punctured 
here  and  thereby  the  spires  of  square  churches,  the 


THE  WIRELESS  71 

solid  bulk  of  some  braggart  warehouse,  the  rigging  and 
funnels  and  smoke-stacks  of  ships  that  rode  breast- 
high  above  the  stone  quays.  It  came  stolidly,  mas 
sively,  German  to  the  core,  striking  Tom's  ears  with 
the  cumulated  sound  waves  of  hundreds  of  lips  speak 
ing  a  strange,  guttural  language  that  made  him  feel 
homesick,  and  caused  him  to  hold  close  to  Lord 
Vyvyan  as  to  an  anchor  in  a  storm. 

The  farewells  of  passengers.  An  exchange  of  cards 
and  of  promises,  soon  forgotten,  to  write,  to  call,  to 
keep  in  touch  with  one  another. 

Then  the  short  ride  to  Bremen  itself,  through  a 
wedge-shaped  stretch  of  rolling  fields  with  plump  Hoi- 
stein  cattle  that  looked  ridiculously  small  and  ridicu 
lously  tame  to  Tom's  range  sense,  and  through  a  sweep 
of  box-like  suburban  houses,  each  framed  by  a  bit  of 
lawn  that  was  almost  English  in  its  moist,  pristine 
greenness. 

Bremen  at  mid-day.  Bremen — clean-cut,  hard,  pre 
occupied,  blending  the  tortured  Gothic  of  ancient 
Hanseatic  buildings  with  the  pinchbeck,  stuccoed  effi 
ciency  of  modern  Germany. 

"Haben  Sie  was  zu  deklariren?"  a  customs  inspector, 
in  blue  with  narrow  gold  braid,  truculently  mustached 
and  bearded,  asked  of  Tom. 

Tom  became  flustered.  The  little  German  he  had 
.learned  flew  away  like  rubbish  in  a  wind,  and  he 
looked  appealingly  at  Vyvyan. 

The  latter  laughed. 

"Right!"  he  said.  "I'll  be  dragoman,"  and  he  ad 
dressed  .the  official  in  fluent  German  for  which  after 
wards  he  apologized,  really  apologized,  rather  shame 
facedly. 

"You  see,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  "wl  m  I  was  a  little 


72  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

nipper  they  deviled  my  young  soul  with  governesses 
and  Frduleins  and  tutors  and  what-not.  Taught  me 
German  .  .  ." 

"And  French?" 

"Rather!" 

"And  a  few  more  assorted  lingoes?"  suggested  Tom 
dryly. 

Vyvyan  looked  up  quickly.  But  Tom  was  a  poker 
player.  There  was  no  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  only  an 
honest  question,  and  the  Englishman  said  that  "Yes !" 
He  had  quite  a  few  languages  at  his  command. 

"But  keep  it  under  your  hat/'  he  added.  "I,  well, 
you  wouldn't  understand,  being  an  American.  But 
we  Englishmen,  Englishmen  like  me,  y'know  .  .  . 
have  the  devil's  own  horror  of  being  thought  clever 
or  gifted.  Not  that  I  am  clever,"  he  wound  up  hur 
riedly. 

"Oh,  no !"  Tom's  accents  were  ingenuous  and  sin 
cere. 

"But  I  do  speak  languages.  Can't  help  it.  They 
crammed  me  no  end.  Frightfully  sorry  and  all  that. 
And  now — •"  turning  to  a  taxicab  driver  dressed  in 
brown,  red-faced  and  with  a  nose  that  beaked  away 
from  the  plump,  shiny  cheeks  at  a  tremendously  ex 
aggerated  angle,  "Nach  dem  Bahnhof!  Rasch!  The 
next  train  for  Berlin  leaves  in  a  few  minutes,"  he  ex 
plained  to  Tom,  "unless  you  want  to  stay  over  in 
Bremen  for  a  day  or  two  ?" 

"No.     I  don't." 

Tom  shook  his  head  and  his  eyes  followed  Bertha's 
lithe  figure,  dressed  in  a  becoming  greenish  tweed,  a 
tiny  toque  pressed  deep  over  her  silken  tresses.  She 
was  accompanied  by  a  tall,  elderly  man  in  the  uniform 
of  the  Uhlans  of  the  Guard,  in  tightly  fitting  regi 
mentals  of  dark  blue,  a  double  stripe  of  crimson  run- 


THE  WIRELESS  73 

ning  down  the  trousers  and  disappearing  in  the  high, 
lacquered  riding-boots,  crimson  collar  and  plastron, 
epaulettes  of  heavy  twisted  gold  braid,  and  the 
uhlanka,  the  helmet  with  its  Polish  top-piece  that  made 
it  look  like  a  glorified  mortarboard,  tilted  slightly 
over  the  right  eye.  The  saber,  carried  on  a  long 
chain,  clanked  belligerently  against  the  ground. 

He  turned  when  he  heard  Tom's  unmistakable 
American  voice,  and  Tom  saw  a  full,  round,  high- 
colored  face,  not  unhandsome  with  its  well-shaped  lips 
brushed  by  a  small,  iron-gray  mustache,  its  long, 
straight  nose,  and  small  ears  set  close  against  the  head. 

The  officer  bent  from  his  great  height  and  spoke 
to  Bertha.  Tom  saw  her  shake  her  head,  as  if  an 
grily,  turn,  look  at  him,  then  whisper  a  quick  word 
to  the  German. 

The  latter  gave  a  short  laugh,  patted  her  on  the 
shoulder,  and  walked  up  to  Tom  with  outstretched 
hand. 

"You  are  Mr.  Graves?"  he  asked  in  English. 

"Yes  .  .  .     Sure  .  .  ." 

"Charmed!  Charmed !"  The  other  saluted.  "I 
am  Colonel  Wedekind — Colonel  Heinrich  Wedekind. 
Martin's  brother  I" 


;  CHAPTER  XII 

COLONEL  WEDEKIND 

TOM  was  flustered. 

He  did  not  know  what  to  say  or  how  to  behave 
with  Bertha  a  few  feet  away  looking  on  very  disdain 
fully  and  very  impatiently,  evidently  intent  on  not  rec 
ognizing  him. 

He  turned  for  moral  support  to  Lord  Vyvyan — 
who  had  slipped  away.  He  saw  his  broad-shouldered 
form  disappear  in  the  taxicab,  the  roof  of  which  was 
piled  high  with  an  assortment  of  extremely  British- 
looking  luggage:  from  golf  sticks  to  plaid  roll,  from 
pigskin  Gladstone  bag  to  a  bundle  of  canes  and  um 
brellas. 

Tom's  first  idea  was  that  Martin  Wedekind  must 
have  cabled  to  his  brother  in  Berlin.  He  could 
not  have  written,  since  Tom  had  taken  the  first  steamer 
out  of  New  York,  and  so  there  would  not  have  been 
margin  enough  for  a  letter  to  go  by  the  same  ship, 
reach  the  German  capital,  and  give  the  Colonel  time  to 
get  to  Bremen.  Perhaps  Martin  Wedekind  had  in 
cluded  the  news  of  his  coming  in  the  wire  advising 
that  of  his  daughter. 

Tom  was  surprised  at  the  thought.  But  he  was 
even  more  surprised  when  the  Uhlan's  next  words 
showed  him  that  no  such  cable  had  been  sent  or 
received. 

74 


COLONEL  WEDEKIND  75 

"Captain  von  Gotz-Wrede  told  me  you  were  com 
ing,  Mr.  Graves." 

"But  ...     I  didn't  tell  him  when  I  was  coming." 

The  Colonel  laughed. 

"My  dear  sir,"  he  said,  "you  didn't  have  to.  The 
famous  owner  of  the  no  less  famous  Yankee  Doodle 
Glory  coming  to  Germany!  Why,  sir,  the  names 
on  the  passenger  list  have  been  cabled  over  here  and 
your  intended  visit  has  been  duly  heralded  in  certain 
sections  of  our  press.  Charmed,  my  dear  sir, 
charmed !" 

And  when  the  young  Westerner,  in  want  of  some 
thing  better  to  say,  mentioned  that  Martin  Wedekind 
in  Spokane  had  given  him  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
his  brother,  searched  in  his  pocketbook,  found  the 
note,  and  handed  it  to  the  German,  the  latter  read 
it,  ejaculated  once  more  his  favorite  slogan  of : 
"Charmed,  my  dear  sir,  charmed !"  and  linked  his 
arm  familiarly  through  that  of  Tom's. 

"I  have  a  compartment  reserved  for  myself  and 
my  niece.  Please  do  me  the  honor  of  sharing  it." 

Again  Tom  was  not  sure  what  to  say.  Lord 
Vyvyan  had  driven  off.  He  was  in  a  foreign  land, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and  everything  seemed 
topsy-turvy  to  him.  Even  as  simple  an  action  as 
calling  a  porter  assumed  the  shape  of  an  immense  and 
embarrassing  predicament.  He  would  have  liked  to 
accept  the  Colonel's  kindly  offer. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  was  Bertha,  looking 
through  him  with  stony  eyes. 

What  excuse  could  he  give  ? 

He  only  knew  that  he  could  not  tell  the  officer  about 
the  tiff  he  and  the  girl  had  had  on  shipboard.  So 
he  took  a  deep  breath  like  a  man  about  to  risk  a 
cold  plunge,  accompanied  the  other  like  a  lamb  led 


76  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

to  the  slaughter  and  positively  quailed  when  Bertha 
acknowledged  his  greetings  with  an  icy  word. 

A  short  drive  through  the  Bremen  streets  brought 
them  to  the  depot,  where  the  Colonel  excused  him 
self  for  a  few  minutes  to  see  about  some  telegraphic 
messages  he  had  to  send  off. 

Tom  was  alone  with  Bertha.  He  looked  at  her, 
and  she  looked  at  him.  Both  were  silent,  until  Tom 
could  stand  it  no  longer. 

And  he  spoke : 

"Say,  Bertha!" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Graves?"  haughtily. 

He  was  going  to  go  back  to  the  old  subject  which 
had  caused  the  misunderstanding  on  shipboard,  to  ex 
plain,  but  when  he  opened  his  mouth,  the  first  words 
which  came  were : 

"Say,  I'm  just  crazy  about  you!  Just  plumb 
crazy!" 

The  words  were  spoken.  More  came.  He  could 
not  restrain  them.  So  he  gave  up  the  attempt  and 
surrendered  himself  to  his  passion,  poured  out  in  a 
riotous  torrent  of  speech,  flavored  with  the  deep,  de 
cent,  clean  love  that  was  his,  flavored,  too,  with  the 
tang  of  the  range  .  .  .  and  it  sounded  strange  here, 
amidst  the  brassy,  pompous,  unpersonal  efficiency  of 
the  German  railway  depot,  with  the  head  station  mas 
ter,  in  a  military  uniform,  bullying  the  sergeant  of 
police,  girded  and  armed  like  a  warrior  about  to  step 
forth  to  savage  combat,  the  sergeant  bullying  the 
policemen,  the  latter  transferring  the  compliment  to 
the  public,  who  continued  it  on  to  the  railway  porters, 
the  latter  passing  the  disciplinary  buck  to  the  cab 
drivers  who,  seeing  nobody  whom  they  could  bully 
in  safety,  took  it  out  of  their  horses*  hides. 


COLONEL  WEDEKIND  73 

Amidst  the  roar  and  riot  of  it  Tom's  words  seemed 
homely,  simple.  They  seemed  out  of  place  and  tinged 
with  a  certain  nostalgic  melancholia,  and  it  was  per 
haps  that  which  went  to  the  young  girl's  heart  and 
caused  her  to  droop  her  eyelids. 

"Why,  Tom/'  she  said,  faltering  a  little,  "you  must 
not  .  .  ." 

"Mustn't  I?  You  just  bet  I  must!  How  do  you 
know  what's  going  on  in  my  heart,  Bertha?  Say — 
at  times  my  love  fairly,  oh,  chokes  me,  and  .  .  ."  He 
collected  himself.  He  had  spoken  with  a  louder  voice 
than  he  had  intended,  and  some  of  the  Augsburg's 
passengers  had  stopped  and  chattered,  pointing  and 
giggling,  amongst  themselves.  "And  there's  some 
thing  else  I  got  to  tell  you,"  he  went  on  in  lower 
tones.  "I  had  no  idea  you  were  going  to  Germany. 
I  didn't  mean  to  persecute  you.  Honest  to  God,  I 
didn't!  Won't  you  believe  me — please?" 

She  looked  at  him.  She  saw  the  honest  purpose, 
the  honest  dignity,  the  honest  truth  in  his  eyes,  and 
she  inclined  her  head. 

"Yes,  Tom.     I  do  believe  you!" 

"Bully!"  was  his  simple  comment  as  he  squeezed 
her  hand.  "And  say,  won't  you  .  .  ." 

The  rest  of  his  sentence  was  swallowed  in  the  suck 
and  rush  of  the  incoming  train  and  a  moment  later 
the  Colonel  returned,  smiling,  officious,  over-polite, 
and  bundled  the  two  young  Americans  into  a  first- 
class  compartment  marked:  "Reservirt" 

The  last  Tom  saw  was  Lord  Vyvyan  entering  the 
next  carriage.  He  turned  as  if  to  address  him,  but 
the  Englishman  winked  rapidly  and  shook  his  head. 

It  was  clear  that  he  did  not  want  the  other  to  speak 
to  him  or  recognize  him  just  then. 


78  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

But  Tom  did  not  mind. 

For  he  sat  next  to  Bertha,  and  with  a  little  shy 
pressure  of  her  soft  hand  she  told  him  that  she  had 
forgiven  him,  woman  like,  for  something  he  had  not 
been  guilty  of. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

BERLIN 

WHATEVER  prejudices  Tom  Graves  may  have  had 
against  Colonel  Heinrich  Wedekind  disappeared  dur 
ing  his  first  twenty-four  hours  in  Berlin  and  he  told 
himself  that  either  the  man  must  have  changed  to 
his  advantage  during  the  long  years  when  Martin  had 
not  seen  him,  or  that  the  latter  must  have  been  mis 
taken  in  his  judgment  of  his  brother's  character. 

For,  if  anything,  Martin  had  \varned  Tom  against 
Heinrich  in  the  special  delivery  letter  he  had  sent  care 
of  the  steamship  office  in  New  York,  and  here  was 
the  Colonel  the  very  image  of  friendliness  and  con 
sideration. 

True,  the  man  was  at  times  over-polite;  with  the 
sort  of  politeness,  different  from  the  spontaneous 
politeness  of  the  American,  which  is  the  result  of 
broad,  national  kindliness,  from  the  French,  which 
is  a  racial  trait  and  a  virtue  bred  by  logic  since  it  is 
such  an  effort  to  a  Latin  to  be  rude,  from  the  Eng 
lish,  which  is  careless  and  supremely  sure  of  itself, 
from  the  Spanish,  which  is  a  marvelously  delicate 
art  .  .  .  With  the  sort  of  politeness  which  seemed 
to  have  been  scientifically  and  efficiently  measured, 
probed,  manufactured,  chiseled,  clouted,  and  cut  into 
patterns,  distributed  by  order  of  the  Government, 
drilled,  and  trained  in  a  mathematical  fashion,  to 
gether  with  the  three  R's.  A  rectangular,  a  self- 
conscious,  a  holier-than-thou  politeness ! 

79 


8o  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

But  that  apart,  the  man  did  everything  in  his  power 
to  make  Tom  feel  at  home  in  a  strange  land. 

For  it  was  he  who  fell  discreetly  into  a  doze,  in 
the  railway  carriage,  when  he  noticed  the  young 
Westerner's  naively  clumsy  attempts  to  speak  to  Ber 
tha  in  an  undertone.  It  was  he  who  steered  him 
through  the  throng  and  mazes  of  the  Lehrter  Bahn- 
hof  when  the  train  arrived  at  the  capital.  It  was  he 
who  insisted,  when  Tom  wanted  to  go  to  a  hotel 
recommended  to  him  by  the  desk  clerk  of  the  New 
York  hotel  where  he  had  put  up,  that  he  would  be 
more  comfortable  in  a  little  flat  in  the  West  end,  on 
the  Kurfurstendamm. 

"Snug  little  four  room  affair,"  said  the  Colonel, 
"nicely  furnished.  Belongs  to  a  friend  of  mine  who 
left  town  for  six  months  or  so  and  wants  to  sublet 
it." 

"But,"  smiled  Tom,  'Tm  not  going  to  stay  long 
in  Berlin." 

"Na,  na!"  laughed  the  Colonel.  "We're  not  go 
ing  to  let  you  get  away  from  here  for  quite  a  while. 
Better  take  the  flat.  It's  complete  in  every  detail, 
and  my  friend  has  even  left  his  English-speaking  valet 
behind." 

Finally  Tom  accepted,  and  an  hour  later  saw  him  in 
stalled  in  a  comfortable,  compact  apartment  overlook 
ing  the  broad,  pretentious  boulevard  known  as  Kur 
furstendamm,  which  runs  in  a  shiny  sweep  from  the 
Kaiser  Wilhelm  Gedachtniss  Church  to  Halensee — a 
generation  ago  a  thickly  wooded  pine  forest,  to-day 
the  most  swagger  of  swagger  suburbs,  a  Berlin  West- 
chester. 

The  rooms  were  all  the  Colonel  had  said,  and  so 
was  the  valet,  a  small,  thin,  clean-shaven  man  of  about 
thirty  with  a  perfect  command  of  the  English  Ian- 


BERLIN  81 

guage,  including  even  a  working  knowledge  of  Ameri 
can  slang  which  he  explained,  rather  apologized  for, 
when  Tom  asked  him,  by  bowing  and  saying  that 
he  had  spent  some  time  on  the  other  side  of  the  At 
lantic  as  valet  to  an  attache  of  the  German  Embassy 
in  Washington. 

"Well,  if  that  isn't  bully!"  exclaimed  Tom.  "Been 
to  America,  have  you?  Why,  that  makes  me  feel 
real  home  like.  Here.  Have  a  smoke,"  opening  his 
cigarette  case,  "Mr  .  .  .  ?" 

"Krauss!"  said  the  man,  bowing  again. 

"Cut  out  the  wavy  motion.  You'll  injure  your 
spine,  Mr.  Krauss." 

"No,  no — I  beg  your  pardon — not  Mister  Krauss! 
Just  Krauss!"  And  he  added:  "May  I  venture  to 
suggest,  sir,  that  valets  are  simply  addressed  by  their 
family  names  in  Germany  and" — he  coughed  dis 
creetly — "that  a  German  gentleman  does  not  offer  his 
cigarettes  to  a  servant?" 

"Don't  he?  Well — this  American  gentleman  does," 
laughed  Tom,  good-naturedly. 

But  when  Krauss  blushed,  positively  blushed,  shak 
ing  his  head  in  speechless  embarrassment,  Tom  felt 
sorry  for  him. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "Don't  you  worry.  I'll 
smoke  it  for  you.  And  now  .  .  .  What  exactly  are 
you  supposed  to  be  good  for?" 

"Anything,  sir,  anything!" 

"Pretty  large  order  that,  Krauss !" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  served  in  some  of  the  best  houses  in 
Berlin,  sir." 

"You  have?  All  right.  Let's  try  you.  Know 
how  to  make  flapjacks?" 

Krauss  opened  his  eyes  wide.  "Flap  .  .  .  Did 
you  say — flap  .  .  .  ?" 


82  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Jacks!  Sure.  Flapjacks!  No  savvy?  Cute  lit 
tle  yellow  cakes,  all  hot  and  sizzlin',  and  drowned  in 
maple  syrup?  No?  Well,  I  got  to  eat  some  or 
bust!" 

"Ah,  it  is  food?" 

"Sure.     What  d'you  think  it  is?" 

The  valet  curdled  his  leathery  features  into  a 
smile. 

"I  can  make  a  little  of  the  French  cuisine,"  he  sug 
gested. 

"Not  on  your  life!  I  ate  that  on  board  ship. 
French  cooking  mixed  up  with  German!  Chicken 
broth  with  prunes!  Sour  herring  with  chocolate 
sauce!  Little  dimpled  spring  peas  stuffed  with  gar 
lic!  No!  Flapjacks  is  what  I  want,  and  flapjacks  is 
what  I'm  going  to  get.  Got  flour  in  the  kitchen,  eggs, 
sugar,  milk,  baking  powder,  syrup?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Fine  and  dandy.  Lead  the  way.  I'll  make  'em 
myself!" 

And  to  the  German's  evident  horror,  he  took  off 
coat,  vest,  and  suspenders,  rolled  his  shirt  sleeves  to 
the  elbows,  and  invaded  the  shiny,  immaculate  kitchen, 
whistling  Casey  Jones  at  the  top  of  his  lungs. 

"Don't  look  so  all-fired  flabbergasted!"  consoled 
Tom.  "I'm  going  to  have  a  little  party  all  by  my 
self."  Suddenly  he  laughed.  "Wait.  Got  such  a 
thing  as  a  telephone  in  Berlin?" 

"Yes,  sir.     Certainly,  sir." 

"Bully.  Ring  up  Lord  Vyvyan  and  tell  him  .  .  . 
No !"  he  shook  his  head.  *  "I'm  a  darned  fool.  I  for 
got  to  ask  him  his  address." 

The  valet  bowed.  "Lord  Vyvyan  is  at  the  Brit 
ish  Embassy." 


BERLIN  83 

"Sure.  That's  where  he  hangs  out.  But—"  Tom 
looked  up  sharply — "how  in  hell  do  you  know?" 

The  valet  coughed.     He  blushed  a  little. 

"A — a  telegraphic  report  in  the  Berlin  papers/*  he 
murmured,  "advising  his  appointment  .  .  ." 

Tom  grinned. 

"More  wireless  cabling  without  wireless?"  he 
laughed,  amused  at  the  other's  discomfiture.  "Say! 
Europe  isn't  asleep  by  a  darned  sight.  She  can  sure 
teach  us  Americans  some!  Well — scoot!  Put  a 
poached  egg  in  your  shoe  and  beat  it!  Ring  up 
Vyvyan  and  tell  him  to  come  round  here.  Tell  him 
to  bring  along  an  appetite — and  say — some  whiskey. 
Rye,  Bourbon,  or,  at  the  worst,  Canadian  Club,  un 
less  there's  some  in  the  kitchen." 

Krauss  hurried  out  while  Tom  busied  himself  with 
flour  and  milk  and  baking  powder.  He  was  very 
happy.  Bertha  had  forgiven  him.  She  had  asked 
him  to  call,  and  through  the  open  window  the  warm 
summer  air  brushed  in,  sweet  with  the  scent  of  birch 
trees  and  linden  blossoms,  and  a  great  crimson  sun 
sinking  slowly  in  the  west. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  came  Krauss'  voice  from 
the  threshold. 

"Sure.     What  is  it?" 

"Just  as  I  stepped  to  the  telephone,  the  bell  rang. 
It  was  Colonel  Wedekind  telephoning." 

"Yes?" 

"He  begs  you  to  come  to  his  house  for  dinner  to 
night.  At  seven  o'clock  sharp,  sir." 

"But  I  asked  you  to  call  up  Lord  Vyvyan!" 

"I  am  sorry,  sir.  .The  Colonel  wouldn't  take  no 
for  an  answer." 

"Did  you  tell  him  I  was  going  to  ask  Lord  Vyvyan  ?" 


84  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"No,  sir.  I  didn't  have  a  chance.  He  wouldn't 
take  no  for  an  answer.  Absolutely  wouldn't.  And 
he  says  you  are  going  to  meet  an  old  friend  at  his 
house." 

"An  old  friend?  At  his  house?  Well,  I  guess  I'd 
better  go.  We'll  leave  the  flapjacks  and  Vyvyan  for 
to-morrow,  Krauss." 

The  latter  bowed.     "Yes,  sir.     Very  good,  sir." 

Tom  Graves  went  to  his  bedroom,  where  Krauss 
had  already  opened  the  trunks  and  distributed  their 
contents. 

"Say,  Krauss,"  went  on  Tom,  "I  guess  they'll  be 
all  dressed  in  their  best  soup  and  gravy  at  the  Colo 
nel's,  eh?" 

"Yes,  sir.  There  will  be  mostly  officers,  and 
they'll  all  be  in  full  uniform,  sir.  May  I" — he 
coughed — "may  I  suggest  that  you  wear — ah,  even 
ing  dress?" 

Tom  glared  at  him. 

"Say!"  said  he.  "I  know  what  to  wear  all  right, 
all  right.  You  may  have  served  in  some  of  the  best 
houses  in  Berlin,  but  believe  me — I  have  danced  in 
some  of  the  best  houses  in  Spokane.  I  know.  Those 
little  chocolate  soldiers  will  all  be  in  their  best  bib 
and  tucker,  pink  and  raspberry  and  sky  blue  and  juicy 
green.  And — decorations!  I  know.  I've  seen  pic 
tures."  Suddenly  he  laughed.  "Say!  I  got  an 
idea!  A  real,  twenty-two  carat,  all-wool  idea!  I'm 
going  to  do  considerable  honor  to-night  to  my  native 
West!" 

And  he  let  out  a  high-pitched,  blood-curdling  war- 
whoop  which  caused  the  irascible  banker  on  the  floor 
below  to  speak  to  his  man  servant  who  in  turn,  knock 
ing  discreetly  at  the  back  door  of  Tom's  apartment, 


BERLIN  85 

to  be  told  by  Krauss  that  an  American  had  taken  the 
place. 

"Yes.  Ein  Amerikaner!  Ein  ganz  wilder — a  per 
fectly  wild  one!" 

The  communication  caused  the  irascible  banker  to 
slam  his  clenched  right  fist  against  his  left  palm. 

"Ach  Gott!"  he  exclaimed.  "Ein  wilder  Ameri 
kaner!  Schrecklich!" 

His  servant  bowed  in  silent  sympathy.  "The 
American  gentleman's  valet  told  me  that  his  master 
is  going  to  dine  to-night  with  Colonel  Wedekind  of 
the  Uhlans  of  the  Guard." 

The  banker  sat  up  straight. 

"What?"  he  asked.  "With  Colonel  Wedekind— in 
the  most  exclusive  military  clique  of  Berlin?  With 
Colonel  Wedekind,  the  Emperor's  friend?  Then  he 
must  be  something  very  big  in  his  own  country,  wild 
or  not  wild.  Minna!"  he  called  to  the  other  room 
where  his  wife,  large,  elderly,  not  bad  looking  in  a 
blowzy,  amorphous  way,  was  reading  the  evening 
paper.  "Minna  I  Early  next  week  we  must  send  our 
cards  to  the  American  gentleman  upstairs  .  .  ."  And 
husband  and  wife  fell  to  talking. 

In  the  meantime,  the  wilder  Amerikaner  had  fin 
ished  dressing.  He  entered  the  taxicab  which  Krauss 
had  summoned,  heard  the  valet  give  the  driver  the 
Colonel's  address — "Dahlmann  Strasse  No.  67" — and 
chuckled  quietly  to  himself. 

Once  or  twice  he  opened  the  light  top  coat  he  wore 
and  looked  down  at  the  lapel  of  his  evening  dress. 

"Sure,"  he  mumbled,  "I'm  going  to  do  consider 
able  honor  to-night  to  my  native  West!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    STRETCHING    OF    THE    WEB 

IT  was  about  five  minutes  after  seven  when  the 
Bursche,  the  Colonel's  military  servant,  an  immense, 
chubby- faced,  curly  haired  Pomeranian  peasant  lad 
whose  legs  in  their  tight  trousers  looked  like  plump 
sausages,  whose  chest  beneath  the  crimson  cloth  plas 
tron  was  exaggeratedly  round  and  extended,  like  a 
pouter  pigeon's,  and  whose  hands  in  white  cotton 
gloves  looked  like  those  of  a  German  edition  of  Fred 
Stone  in  the  role  of  the  "Scarecrow,"  opened  the 
double  doors  of  the  Wedekind  salon  and  announced 
in  a  stentorian  voice: 

"Herr  Graves!"  which  he  pronounced  as  if  it  were 
spelled  "Graafase." 

Tom,  a  sunny  smile  on  his  face,  stepped  into  the 
room,  shook  hands  first  with  the  Colonel,  who  greeted 
him  effusively,  with  the  Colonel's  wife,  a  tall,  raw- 
boned  woman  in  cut  purple  velvet  and  diamonds,  with 
a  hooked  nose,  very  intelligent  black  eyes,  a  fringe  of 
false  reddish  hair  falling  over  her  forehead,  and  the 
voice  of  a  grenadier,  and  was  then  introduced  the 
rounds  of  the  company.  There  was  one  civilian,  a 
Professor  Conrad  Heifer,  a  small,  spectacled  man  in 
illy  fitting  evening  dress  and  a  crumpled  white  neck 
tie  that  had  worked  its  way  past  the  collar  and  was 
threatening  the  professor's  tiny,  red  ears.  The  other 
guests  were  all  officers  and  their  wives,  in  full  regi 
mentals,  some  in  the  uniform  of  the  Uhlans,  others 

86 


JHE  STRETCHING  OF  THE  WEB       87 

in  the  cream  and  silver  of  the  Cuirassiers  of  the 
Guard,  and  one  dapper,  bowlegged  man  in  the  crim 
son  and  gold  of  the  Potsdam  Hussars.  All  wore  dec 
orations,  and  Tom,  who  held  his  left  hand  over  his 
lapel,  chuckled  to  himself  as  he  noticed  it. 

"Charmed!  Delighted!"  some  of  the  officers  said 
in  English,  clicking  their  heels  and  bowing  from  their 
waist  lines  in  rectangular  fashion. 

Others  gave  German  words  of  greeting  .  .  .  And 
even  Tom  knew  that  it  was  different  from  the  Ger 
man  he  had  heard  on  shipboard,  on  the  customs  pier, 
and  in  the  railway  stations:  it  was  snarling,  cutting, 
pronounced  with  a  jarring  twang : 

"Grosse  Ehre!" 

"Ah!    Kolossales  Vergnugcn!" 

"Servus!    Servus!"  from  a  South  German. 

Finally  the  Colonel  introduced  him  to  a  short,  broad- 
shouldered  gentleman  sitting  on  a  green  plush  sofa 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  very  pompous  and  very 
erect — "like  some  darned  idol  in  a  Chink  joss  house," 
thought  Tom — who  wore  the  uniform  of  a  general 
and  whose  breast  outshone  all  the  others  in  its  splen 
dor  of  stars  and  medals. 

Colonel  Wedekind  clicked  his  heels  and  bowed  very 
deeply. 

"Konigliche  Hoheit — Royal  Highness!"  he  said,  in 
an  awestruck  whisper,  "permit  me  graciously  to  in 
troduce  Mr.  Graves,  the  American  gentleman  of  whom 
I  spoke  to  you!"  and,  in  Tom's  ear:  "His  Royal 
Highness,  Prince  Ludwig  Karl,  the  Emperor's 
cousin !" 

His  Royal  Highness  rasped  something  about 
"VergnugtF  while  Tom,  chuckling  to  himself  for  the 
first  time  since  he  had  entered  the  salon,  took  his  left 
hand  from  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  exposing  an  enor- 


88  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

mous  gold  medal,  set  with  diamonds,  and  barbarously 
ornamented  with  various  designs — the  figure  of  a  cow 
boy  riding  a  refractory  mare  and  waving  his  stetson, 
that  of  an  Indian,  of  a  buffalo  charging  head  down, 
and  the  whole  surmounted  by  an  enameled  American 
flag. 

Prince  Ludwig  Karl  opened  his  eyes  wide. 

"I— I  .  .  ."  He  said,  in  halting  English,  "may  I 
inquire  what  decoration  you  are  wearing?  I — ah — 
I  thought  I  was  familiar  with  all  foreign  orders— 
eh?"  turning  to  the  Colonel,  who  bowed  and  seemed 
flustered. 

Tom  laughed  out  loud  in  the  innocence  of  his  heart, 
sure  that  the  Prince  and  all  the  others  would  fall  in 
readily  with  his  Western  sense  of  humor. 

"Say,  Prince/'  he  exclaimed  in  a  hearty  voice  that 
carried  the  length  of  the  room,  "I  knew  all  you  fel 
lows  would  be  decked  out  like  cattle  at  a  country  fair, 
with  medals  and  ribbons  and  all  that — seen  it  in  the 
movies — "  touching,  to  the  terrible  consternation  oi 
the  assembled  company,  the  Red  Eagle  of  the  First 
Class,  Prussia's  highest  decoration,  that  blazed  on  the 
Prince's  chest,  "and  so  I  said  to  myself  I  was  go 
ing  to  do  the  right  thing  by  Spokane  and  the  whol( 
Northwest.  Swell  little  medal  this,  don't  you  think? 
Won  it  at  the  Pendleton  round-up  for  breaking  the 
broncho-busting  record.  Take  a  look  at  it,  Prince 
Believe  me — the  boys  had  to  chip  in  considerably  to 
pay  for  it !" 

It  was  a  familiar  voice  which  broke  the  pall  o: 
utter,  horrified  silence  that  had  followed  Torn's  little 
speech. 

"Well,  Graves,  I  see  you  kept  your  promise!"  and 
Tom  knew  who  the  old  friend  was  of  whom  Colonel 
Wedekind  had  spoken  over  the  telephone,  Baron  Horst 


THE  STRETCHING  OF  THE  WEB       89 

von  Gotz-Wrede,  the  German  officer  who  had  wanted 
to  buy  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory ;  and  "Yankee  Doodle 
Glory"  was  the  only  word  which  Tom  caught  from 
the  flood  of  German  which  the  young  officer  was 
whispering  to  the  Prince,  causing  the  latter  to  come 
out  of  his  indignant  trance  and  to  wave  a  condescend 
ing  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  young  Westerner. 

The  Baron  took  Tom  by  the  arm. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  kept  your  promise,"  he  re 
peated.  "It  was  awfully  decent  of  you  to  break  your 
engagement  with  Lord  Vyvyan." 

Tom  was  about  to  give  an  astonished  reply,  for  he 
remembered  that  Krauss  had  told  him  he  had  not  had 
a  chance  to  tell  the  Colonel  about  the  invitation  to 
Vyvyan.  But  his  first  surprise  was  quickly  swal 
lowed  in  a  second  when  the  Baron,  still  blithely  ram 
bling  on,  advised  him  jocularly  to  be  careful  how  he 
applied  his  "charming  American  sense  of  humor  with 
us  stodgy  Germans.  We  want  you  to  like  us,  Graves, 
and  we'll  take  corking  good  care  of  you.  We'll  see 
that  you  get  into  no  more  such  Homeric  scrapes  as 
you  did  with  that  fellow  Neumann  aboard  the  Augs 
burg/' 

"Say!"  This  time  Tom  was  amazed.  He  had 
nearly  forgotten  about  the  little  contretemps  with  the 
bank  clerk,  and  here  it  was  being  quoted  at  him  on 
his  first  day  in  Berlin.  He  was  familiar  with  the 
quickness  and  shrewdness  of  American  reporters,  but 
it  seemed  that  their  German  colleagues — for  it  could 
not  be  anything  else — had  them  beaten  by  many  miles. 

He  was  going  to  say  something  of  the  sort  when 
the  German  Baron,  seeing  the  expression  of  surprise 
in  Tom's  honest  eyes  and  feeling  instinctively  that  he 
had  been  guilty  of  some  error  of  judgment,  quickly 
and  successfully  changed  the  conversation.  He 


90  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

pointed  at  Bertha,  who  was  just  then  coming  into  the 
salon,  a  charming  figure  in  her  dress  of  white  Chinese 
crepe  with  a  tunic  of  rose-pink  chiffon,  the  whole 
covered  with  a  very  spider's  web  of  silver  beads  and 
silver  thread. 

She  was  walking  by  the  side  of  an  old  lady,  dressed 
in  black,  with  snow-white  hair  and  snapping  brown 
eyes. 

"I  am  not  a  jealous  man/'  lightly  laughed  the  Baron, 
walking  away  and  leaving  Tom  a  clear  field. 

The  latter  stepped  up  to  Bertha  as  straight  as  an 
arrow. 

"Hello,  Bertha !"  he  said.  "You're  a  mighty  com 
forting  sight  for  sore  eyes." 

The  girl  smiled. 

"Grandmother/'  she  said,  turning  to  the  old  lady, 
"this  is  Tom  Graves,  a  good  friend  of  mine  from 
Spokane." 

"Grandmother?"  exclaimed  Tom.  "I  thought — 
why — "  he  stammered,  hesitated,  then  went  on  in  an 
undertone.  "I  thought  your  grandmother  was  dan 
gerously  ill  ...  Not  expected  to  live — and  that's 
why  you  came  over  here  in  such  a  hurry!" 

"It  was  a  mistake,  Tom,"  she  said.  "Just  a  mistake 
in  the  transmission  of  the  cable.  Some  words  were 
misspelled." 

And  the  next  moment  the  Bursche  opened  the  doors 
to  the  dining-room,  announcing  dinner : 

"Abentfessen  is  servirt,  Fran  Ob  erst!" 

"Sounds  good  to  me,"  laughed  Tom,  tucking  Ber 
tha's  hand  under  his  arm.  "I'm  as  hungry  as  a 
bear!" — and,  unceremoniously,  used  to  the  free  ease 
of  the  West,  utterly  ignorant  of  the  finely  shaded 
rules  of  etiquette,  he  walked  into  the  dining-room  just 
one  step  ahead  of  His  Royal  Highness. 


CHAPTER  XV 

ANONYMOUS 

IT  was  not  as  if  Tom  Graves  had  been  slow-witted 
or  unobserving  of  what  was  going  on  about  him. 

No  man  of  his  ancestry,  straight  American,  Scotch 
and  English,  descendant  of  sturdy,  independent,  cour 
ageous,  fairly  well-educated  people  who  for  genera 
tions  had  not  felt  the  pinch  of  want  nor  the  lessening 
of  mentality  that  goes  with  it,  who  had  lived  away 
from  the  reek  of  city  slums  yet  away,  too,  from  the 
stultifying  influence  of  meager,  worked-out  farms, 
who  following  the  keen  call  in  their  own  brains,  their 
own  imagination,  had  taken  the  trail  of  the  ever- 
broadening  Western  frontier  from  Virginia  via  Ken 
tucky,  Kansas,  and  California  to  the  Northwest;  no 
man  of  his  bringing  up  and  early  surroundings,  with 
the  sweep  and  tang  of  the  open  range  about  him,  and 
the  range  of  a  decade  or  so  ago  where  often  a  man's 
quickness  of  wit  counted  as  much  as  his  quickness  on 
the  draw;  no  such  man  could  be  slow,  could  be  en 
tirely  unobserving. 

What  was  wrong  with  him  was  a  national  Ameri 
can  fault,  rather  habit,  which  blinded  him  to  every 
thing  that  went  on  about  him  during  this,  his  first, 
visit  abroad  except  his  love  for  Bertha  Wedekind  and 
the  frivolous,  shifting  interests  of  the  passing  minutes. 

A  national  habit  which  caused  him  to  see  for 
eigners  entirely  through  the  smoked,  distorting  spec- 


92  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

tacles  of  provinciality  and,  in  judging  them,  to  ac 
cept  certain  cut-and-dried  verdicts  and  well-defined 
standards  that  were  nearly  always  the  result  of  frivo 
lous  newspaper  comment,  of  light  fiction,  of  music- 
hall  catchwords,  of  a  motion  pictures  director's  abys 
mal  ignorance,  of  smart,  would-be  witty  remarks 
coined  by  returned  travelers! 

Standards  hoary  with  age !  Standards  more  hoary 
with  lies!  Yet  standards  accepted  and  repeated! 

To  Tom  Graves  (and  small  blame  to  him  for  be 
lieving  it  since  the  majority  of  his  countrymen,  in 
cluding  even  those  who,  thanks  to  a  better  education, 
a  better  chance  to  see  and  compare,  should  have  known 
better,  shared  his  belief)  a  Frenchman  was  a  man  who 
wore  a  flat-brimmed,  comical  silk  hat,  white  spats, 
and  a  pointed  beard,  who  gesticulated  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  lived  rather  exclusively  on  pastry  and 
cloudy,  opalescent  absinthe,  had  neither  manhood  nor 
stamina  nor  virtues — Verdun  in  those  days  \vas  only 
a  geographical  term! — and  spent  his  hours  of  leisure 
fighting  bloodless  duels  and  flirting  with  the  wife  of 
his  most  intimate  friend.  The  typical  Russian  was 
an  enormous,  bearded  half -savage  who  ate  candles, 
got  dismally  drunk  upon  raw  spirits,  called  his  fel 
low  Russian  "Little  dove!"  and  "Little  brother!"  and 
amused  himself  by  roasting  Jewish  babies  on  a  spit. 

And  the  German  was  simple,  good-natured,  naive, 
even  stupid;  a  man  who  wept  copious  tears  into  his 
beer  glass,  sang  the  Lorelei,  and  was  as  guileless  as 
the  whitest,  woolliest,  softest  baby  lamb  that  ever 
gamboled  on  the  green. 

Thus  small  blame  to  the  young  Westerner  that  he 
did  not  notice  what  was  going  on  below  the  surface 
in  Colonel  Wedekind's  dining-room,  what  had  been 
going  on  about  him  ever  since  he  had  taken  ship  and 


ANONYMOUS  93 

even  before:  in  fact,  ever  since  Newson  Garrett  had 
discovered  the  presence  of  the  unknown  metal  in  his 
assay  of  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  ore. 

Tom  was  a  stranger  to  the  word  Intrigue. 

Of  course  he  was  aware  of  occasional  lapses  from 
the  straight  and  narrow  path  of  truth  on  the  part  of 
some  as,  for  instance,  when  Baron  Horst  von  Gotz- 
Wrede  mentioned  the  broken  engagement  with  Lord 
Vyvyan  although  Kraufes  had  told  Tom  that  he  had 
not  said  a  word  about  it  to  the  Colonel.  He  had  also 
been  taken  a  little  aback  that  the  Colonel  knew  he  had 
taken  passage  on  the  Augsburg,  that  von  Gotz-Wrede 
was  familiar  with  his  fight  on  board  ship,  and  that  the 
cable  summoning  Bertha  from  Spokane  to  Berlin 
should  have  been  so  thoroughly  distorted  in  trans 
mission. 

But  he  dismissed  and  condoned  it  all  as  an  instance 
of  European  characteristics.  Generally  European; 
not  typically  German  any  more.  For  to  him  all  Euro 
peans  were  slightly  mad. 

"Otherwise/"7  as  he  explained  to  Bertha  during  din 
ner,  "the  poor  simps  wouldn't  insist  on  living  in  Eu 
rope  with  all  the  Northwest  to  choose  spots  in  for 
their  wigwams!" 

One  of  the  mad  European  characteristics — and  for 
this  he  had  the  man's  own  words  at  the  time  when 
he  had  begged  him  not  to  speak  about  his  stubborn 
intention  to  acquire  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  since 
people  might  make  fun  of  him — was  the  Baron's  re 
turning  to  the  subject  when  dinner  was  over  and  he 
had  drawn  the  horse  wrangler  into  a  corner  of  the 
salon. 

"Look  here,"  replied  the  Westerner,  "that  subject 
is  taboo.  You  told  me  you  would  never  speak  of  it 
again  if  I  came  to  Berlin." 


94  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

The  Baron  laughed. 

"Did  I  ?"  he  asked,  lighting  a  cigar. 

"You  sure  did,  sonny!" 

"Well — I  can't  help  it.  Here  you  are  in  my 
clutches,  helpless,  what?  And  you  must  listen  to 
me." 

"Why  must  I?" 

"Because  the  Prince  .  .  ." 

"The  fellow  with  the  decorations  and  the  grouch?" 

"The  same.  You  see,  this  is  not  America.  Ger 
many  is  not  a  Republic.  A  chap  like  myself  simply 
has  to  kowtow  to  a  man  like  the  Prince.  I  told  him 
quite  casually  about  my  trip  to  the  West,  mentioned 
the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory,  and  he  .  .  ."  He  was 
silent,  then  went  on  in  a  whisper.  "You  know," 
touching  his  forehead  significantly,  "some  of  our  Ger- 
ma;i  royalty  are  slightly — oh  .  .  ." 

"Loco?  Too  much  inbreeding.  Just  like  horses. 
Sure,  I  know." 

"Well,  there  you  are,  Graves." 

"What  d'you  mean  there  I  am?" 

"Mad  or  not,  Ludwig  Karl  is  a  Prince  of  the  Royal 
House  and  a  big  man  in  the  war  office.  He  can  make 
me  or  break  me.  And  he's  got  it  into  his  head  that 
it's  up  to  me  to  buy  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory.  I 
was  a  fool  ever  to  have  told  him !" 

"But  why  should  he  be  so  nutty  about  it?  For  the 
Lord's  sake,  pipe  me  the  reason,  man!" 

"Because — well — the  Prince  is  one  of  those  thor 
ough  paced  Germans,  not  a  cosmopolite  like  myself. 
He  thinks  that  whatever  is  German  is  right,  and  what 
ever  is  foreign  is  wrong." 

Tom  inclined  his  head.  "No  wonder  the  poor  old 
gink  is  loco!"  he  said  with  conviction. 

"Yes,  yes,"  agreed  the  Baron.     "But  that's  the  way 


ANONYMOUS  95 

the  field  lays  and — you  must  pardon  me,  old  chap — 
he  thinks  that  I,  being  a  German,  should  be  able  to 
persuade  you,  an  American,  to  sell  whatever  I  want 
to  buy.  Sort  of  national  conceit,  I  suppose.  Na 
tional  stubbornness,  too." 

"Well/'  laughed  Tom,  who  had  dined  and  wined 
well,  who  felt  in  a  generous  mood,  who  was  anxious 
to  finish  the  conversation  and  join  Bertha,  who  was 
talking  to  the  dapper  little  Hussar.  He  had  com 
pletely  forgotten  Martin  Wedekind's  warning.  "You 
and  he  are  a  pair  when  it  comes  to  being  as  stub 
born  as  a  mule.  And  I'm  not  a  mule  skinner. 
Horses  for  mine.  And  so,  just  to  oblige  you, 
I'll  .  .  ." 

"You'll  sell  me  the  Yankee  Doodle?"  cut  in  the 
Baron,  quickly,  excitedly. 

Too  quickly.     Too  excitedly. 

For  Tom  knew  poker.  At  once,  watching  the 
other's  features,  he  drew  back  a  little.  "Over  anx 
ious,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  then,  in  a  loud  voice: 
"I'll  let  you  know  in  the  morning." 

The  Baron  studied  the  Westerner's  calm,  clean 
shaven  face.  He  knew  that  it  would  be  lost  time  to 
argue  any  more  to-night. 

"I'll  be  at  your  place  at  ten  in  the  morning  sharp. 
I  have  a  spare  horse  and  we'll  take  a  little  gallop  to 
gether  if  you  care." 

"Fine  and  dandy!  But — say!"  Suddenly  he  re 
membered  the  riders  he  had  seen  cantering  down  the 
Kurfurstendamm  from  the  windows  of  his  apartment. 
"None  of  your  measly  postage  stamp  saddles. 
Either  you  get  me  a  good  old  forty-pound  stock  sad 
dle  with  a  horn  to  swing  my  leg  over  when  I  get 
tired,  or  I'll  ride  that  goat  of  yours  barebacked,  see?" 

An  hour  later  Tom  was  in  his  flat.     Two  hours 


96  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

later  he  was  sound  asleep.  Three  hours  later  the  jar 
ring  ring  of  the  telephone  bell  startled  him  wide  awake. 

He  rushed  out  and  took  down  the  receiver. 

"What?"  he  asked.  "Say  that  again!  I  shouldn't 
sell  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory?  Who's  that  talking? 
Who  .  .  .  ?  Anonymous?  Don't  know  a  party  by 
that  name,  but  your  voice  sounds  darned  familiar. 
Oh — Anonymous  isn't  your  name — you  don't  want  to 
tell  me  your  name  .  .  .  Oh !  Look  here,  stranger, 
I  don't  cotton  to  that  sort  o'  thing — if  you  got  a 
square,  decent  reason  for  butting  into  my  affairs,  there 
isn't  a  reason  in  the  world  why  you  shouldn't  tell 
me  your  name.  Politics?  Politics — hell!  I  mixed 
up  considerable  in  politics  when  my  boss  ran  for 
sheriff.  What?  German  politics?  Say,  what  do 
these  Dutchmen  know  of  politics?  Eh?  More  than 
I  think?  .  .  .  All  right,  all  right!  Keep  your  hair 
on,  Mister  Anonymous.  Maybe  I  won't  sell — yet!" 
and  he  went  back  to  bed. 

He  did  not  know  that  in  the  servant's  room,  hid 
den  in  the  clothes  press,  there  was  another  telephone 
instrument  connecting  with  his  own,  and  that  Krauss 
had  taken  down  the  receiver  and  had  listened  to  every 
word  of  the  conversation. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    HORSEMAN 

TOM'S  whole  life,  his  whole  philosophy,  his  whole 

decency,  was  a  rough  fact  reduced  to  rough  order.     A 

simple  man,  he  did  not  practice  that  maddening  and 

i  useless   mental   stenography   known   to   the   elect   as 

I  analytical  psychology.     He  never  dissected  either  his 

own  or  other  people's  emotions.     Always  had  he  be- 

f  lieved  that  every  question  in  life  could,  and  should, 

be  answered  by  a  simple  yes,  or  an  as  simple  no;  and 

once  the  answer,  positive  or  negative,  was  given,  it 

had  to  stand. 

Thus,  when  he  had  gone  back  to  bed  that  night, 
he  felt  disturbed  in  his  equanimity. 

For  the  anonymous  telephone  message  had  recalled 
to  him  Martin  Wedekind's  spoken  and  cabled  warn 
ing  not  to  sell  the  mine  in  the  Hoodoos,  and  Martin 
was  his  good  friend,  had  proved  himself  his  good 
\  friend,  besides  being  the  father  of  the  girl  he  loved. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  had  led  Baron  von  Gotz- 
Wrede  to  believe  that  it  was  his  intention  to  part  with 
the  property;  and  so  here  he  was  face  to  face  with 
a  moral  dilemma  which,  to  his  simple,  clean-cut  con 
science,  threatened  to  assume  very  grave  proportions. 

He  was,  therefore,  agreeably  surprised  when  the 
next  morning  at  precisely  ten  o'clock  the  German 
officer  called  on  him  and  waved  the  whole  perturbing 
question  away  with  a  negligent  gesture  of  his  gloved 

97 


98  [THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

hand.  fThe  man  seemed  neither  astonished  nor  in 
dignant. 

"That's  all  right,  Graves/'  he  said.  "Don't  you 
worry  about  it  the  slightest  bit.  I'll  make  my  peace 
with  the  Prince.  I  had  rather  an  idea  that — "  and 
a  less  ingenuous  mortal  than  Tom  Graves  might  have 
noticed  that  at  the  words  von  Gotz-Wrede  gave  a 
slight  wink  in  the  direction  of  the  immaculate 
Krauss,  who  was  busy  with  the  breakfast  dishes — 
"yes!  I  had  rather  an  idea  that  you  would  change 
your  mind.  Why  not?  People  are  always  liable  to 
do  that." 

That  last  was  a  statement  which  jarred  unpleasantly 
on  the  Westerner,  since  a  change  of  mind  was  the 
very  thing  which  clashed  with  his  solid  principles. 

"But — but — "  he  stammered  in  a  sort  of  flustered 
self-defense.  He  was  going  to  give  his  reason  for 
refusing  to  sell.  But  at  once  he  remembered  that 
Martin  Wedekind's  warning,  whatever  its  cause,  was 
sure  to  have  been  meant  confidentially,  while  some 
thing — he  did  not  know  what,  but  it  was  very  com 
pelling — kept  him  from  speaking  of  the  anonymous 
telephone  message. 

"I— I  .  .  ."     He  was  silent. 

"Never  mind,  never  mind,"  smiled  the  officer. 
"Forget  about  it  and  slip  into  your  riding  togs.  My 
man  is  downstairs  with  the  horses  and  the  brutes  are 
a  bit  fretful  this  morning." 

Then  as  the  other,  greatly  relieved,  turned  to  the 
door  the  German  went  on : 

"By  the  way,  people  here  ask  me  a  raft  of  ques 
tions  about  my  adventures  in  the  wild  West,  and  I 
forgot  the  name  of  that  old  partner  of  yours.  Comi 
cal  old  chap  with  whiskers  and  an  eternal  plug  of 
chewing  tobacco  bulging  his  right  cheek." 


THE  HORSEMAN  99 

"You  mean  Truex.  'Old  Man'  Truex.  But  he 
isn't  my  partner  any  more." 

"He  ...  Ah!"'  The  Baron's  well-modulated 
voice  rose  to  a  strangely  high  note,  quickly  changed 
into  a  cough.  "Sorry.  Must  have  caught  cold  last 
night."  Again  he  coughed.  "Did  you  buy  him  out, 
Graves?" 

"You  mean  Truex?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  not  exactly.  We  just  signed  a  little  agree 
ment,"  and,  led  on  by  the  other,  who  professed  in 
terest  in  American  business  methods  as  well  as  great 
admiration  for  American  business  shrewdness,  he  told 
what  had  happened  between  him  and  the  old  pros 
pector. 

"Bright  chap,  aren't  you?"  smiled  the  German. 
"All  your  own  idea?" 

"Lord,  no!  I'm  a  horse  wrangler,  not  a  money 
wrangler.  It  was  Martin  Wedekind  who  tipped  me 
the  wink." 

"Oh— the  Colonel's  brother?" 

"Sure !"  and  Tom  added  that  Truex  had  gone  once 
more  into  the  wilderness,  that  he  had  left  him  con 
trol  of  the  property,  with  the  one  stipulation  that  in 
the  case  of  his  death  his  sister,  if  ever  she  should 
turn  up,  or  her  children  should  inherit  his  share. 

"Oh— Truex  has  a  sister?" 

"Has — or  had.  She  ran  away  years  ago  with  some 
foreign  fiddler.  'Old  Man'  Truex  don't  know  if  she's 
alive,  don't  even  know  her  married  name." 

"Very  extraordinary,  I'm  sure,"  said  the  Baron. 
Then,  for  after  all  he  was  trained  to  the  special  game 
he  was  playing,  he  decided  that  even  a  man  as  bliss 
fully  ignorant  of  international  intrigue  as  the  young 
Westerner  might  suspect  something  if  he  overdid  his 


ioo  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

interest  in  the  family  affairs  of  the  old  prospector. 
So  he  asked  Tom  again  to  get  into  his  riding  things. 

"All  right.  With  you  in  a  minute!" — and  Tom 
went  to  his  bedroom  while  the  German,  as  soon  as 
the  door  was  closed,  stepped  up  to  Krauss  and  en 
gaged  him  in  a  whispered  conversation  in  explosive 
German. 

Krauss  bowed. 

"Jawold,      Herr      Hauptmann"      he      said.      "I  * 
shall  .  .  ." 

Then,  with  a  warning  cough,  he  stepped  quickly 
back  and  occupied  himself  once  more  with  the  break 
fast  dishes,  for  Tom  was  returning. 

"Here  I  am — all  cocked  and  primed !"  he  said,  and 
Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede  stifled  an  involuntary  exclama^ 
tion  of  surprise. 

For  Tom,  product  of  the  West,  loyal  son  of  the 
West  for  better  or  for  worse,  was  dressed  as  he 
would  on  the  Killicott  range — a  sweat-stained  stetson 
tilted  over  his  brow,  a  clean,  gray  flannel  shirt  show 
ing  beneath  his  open  threadbare  coat  that  still  bore 
tell-tale  stains  of  Idaho  alkali,  a  horse-hair  quirt 
looped  over  his  leather  encircled  wrist,  and  a  pair 
of  ancient,  blue  drill  trousers  tucked  into  high-heeled 
cowhide  boots,  stitched  with  an  elaborate  pattern  and 
ornamented  with  a  pair  of  heavy  Mexican  silver  spurs. 

The  Ba  on  was  himself  again  in  a  moment.  But 
he  gave  a  silent  prayer  that  not  many  of  his  com 
rades  in  the  Uhlans  of  the  Guard  might  use  that 
particular  Sunday  morning  to  stroll  or  ride  down  the 
Kurfiirstendamm  towards  Halensee  and  the  Grune- 
wald.  He  could  imagine  the  jokes  that  would  be 
made,  with  himself  and  his  wild  Western  friend  as 
targets,  at  regimental  mess  and  Liebesmahl. 

"All  right,"  he  said  in  rather  a  weak  voice.     "Let's 


THE  HORSEAN  101 


start."  And  a  minute  latir  tfoy  yere  rn  the  street, 
on  the  earth-covered,  bush-f  ranged  .  riding  track  that 
paralleled  the  sidewalk,  .v:te;G.7^n;.apptre'datiiig  the 
fine  points  of  the  two  bay  mares  with  the  quick,  lov 
ing  eye  of  the  connoisseur,  petted  their  soft  noses 
and  their  coquettish,  tufted  ears  with  knowing  hand. 
The  Baron's  Bursche  looked  on  open-mouthed,  wide- 
eyed. 

But  he  opened  mouth  and  eyes  still  wider  when 
Tom  bent  and  made  as  if  to  take  off  the  saddle  of 
his  horse. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  gasped  the  Baron,  em 
barrassed,  furious,  for  by  this  time  a  crowd  of  loit 
erers  had  assembled  on  the  sidewalk,  only  restrained 
from  jeering,  jocular  comment  by  the  respected,  ad 
mired,  feared  uniform. 

Tom  straightened  up. 

"Look  here,  Baron,"  he  said;  "I  gave  you  fair  warn 
ing  I  wasn't  going  to  ride  on  any  postage-otamp  sad 
dle.  I  want  a  stock  saddle!" 

"There  wasn't  any  to  be  had  in,  all  Berlin  for  love 
or  money." 

"Well,"  laughed  Tom,  "that  isn't  my  fault,"  and 
he  slipped  his  hand  underneath  the  horse's  belly  and 
loosened  the  cinch. 

"What  —  whatever  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"Ride  her  as  God  made  her!" 

And  off  came  the  saddle  with  a  scraping  of  waxed 
leather,  a  jingling  of  brass  rings,  and  up  vaulted  Tom 
on  the  horse's  bare  back,  sitting  well  down  on  his 
seat,  legs  hanging  loose  like  an  Indian's.  He  tickled 
the  mare's  ears  writh  his  quirt. 

"Get  up,  you  little  beauty!  Let's  vsee  how  you  can 
travel.  Yip-yip-yip!"  he  yelled  at  the  top  of  his 
lungs  and  he  was  off  at  a  gallop  while  the  Baron 


102  THE  MAN  ON  HORSE3ACK 

mounted  and   followed,   swearing  under   his  breath. 

Berlin  was  r-uf  iii  all  its  summer  Sunday  morning 
glory..  - 

The  --^oaien  were,  there,  trying  to  copy  the  fine 
feathers  of  Paris  and  Vienna,  and  the  men  trying  to 
ape  those  of  New  York  and  London.  The  army  was 
there  in  all  its  branches:  Cuirassiers  in  cream  and 
silver,  Gardes  du  Corps  in  white  and  gold,  crimson 
Hussars  from  Potsdam,  brown  Hussars  from  Elber- 
feld,  black  "Death  Head"  Hussars  from  Dantzig; 
Jagers  in  rifle  green,  gunners  in  sober  dark  blue,  sap 
pers  and  men  of  the  Service  Corps,  all  clanking  their 
sabers  truculently  against  the  pavement,  ogling  the 
women,  twirling  their  mustaches,  sure,  if  not  of  them 
selves  as  individuals,  then  of  themselves  as  a  caste.  A 
sprinkling  of  the  navy  was  there,  and  a  good  deal  of 
the  nursery:  in  large  white  or  black  enamel  peram 
bulators  wheeled  by  nurses  from  the  old  Slav  colony 
near  Berlin  that  is  called  the  Spreewald,  heavy  women, 
in  white  corsages  and  aprons,  pleated  red  skirts  divulg 
ing  massive  ankles,  with  immense  bonnets  on  their 
heads  that  spread  right  and  left  like  the  wings  of 
airplanes,  and  talking  their  uncouth  Wendish  dia 
lect. 

The  police  was  there,  armed  and  panoplied  and 
caparisoned  like  butchers  with  a  penchant  for  homi 
cide,  and  dozens  of  pimply  faced  schoolboys,  in  tight 
trousers  and  bowler  hats,  swinging  canes  like  the 
grown-ups,  aping  their  elders  who,  in  their  turn,  like 
all  good  Germans,  aped  the  British,  and  making 
archaic,  sentimental  love  to  stodgy  little  girls  who 
looked  up  admiringly  at  the  coming  generation  of  the 
Blond  Beast. 

Tom  rode  his  horse  now  at  an  easy  hand  gallop,  the 
nearest  approach  to  a  lope  of  which  the  bay  mare  was 


THE  HORSEMAN  103 

capable,  and  looked  about  him  with  wondering  eyes. 
It  was  all  so  different  from  what  he  had  expected. 
The  Germany  of  which  he  had  read,  of  which  some 
homesick  Germans  in  the  West  had  told  him,  was  a 
kindly  land,  a  slow  land,  perhaps  coated  with  a  lot 
of  sentimental  sugar  pap,  yet  a  land  which  you  loved, 
though  at  times  it  made  you  smile.  He  had  also 
heard  of  another  Germany,  a  Germany  of  simple,  pure, 
naked  strength,  of  stout  walls  built  only  for  defense, 
of  a  kind  of  ancient,  barbarous,  Teutonic  contempt  for 
useless  decorations,  a  land  of  bare  stone,  hard  wood, 
brick  floors.  Yet  here  was  this  great  boulevard — "we 
are  proud  of  it,"  said  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede.  "It's 
the  finest  in  the  world.  Fifth  Avenue?  The  Lake 
Shore  Drive?  The  Champs  Elysees?  Pshaw! 
They  can't  compare  with  it!" — and  it  was  banal, 
baroque,  overloaded,  stuccoed,  shallow;  like  some  im 
mense,  second-rate  watering-place,  a  cross  between 
Chicago  without  the  clouting  strength  of  Chicago,  and 
a  Paris  that  was  without  its  charm,  that  was  en 
tirely,  shamelessly  cocotte. 

Of  Paris  smacked  the  open-air  cafes  that  were  on 
every  block.  They  were  filled  to  overflowing  with 
the  elite  of  the  Berlin  West  end :  Assessoren,  junior 
judges,  in  all  the  crushing  dignity  of  recently  acquired 
sheepskin;  students  with  droll  flat  caps,  sky  blue  and 
pale  green  and  hopeful  lavender  and  virulent  magenta, 
insignia  of  the  Corps  or  Burschensdiajten,  the  'var 
sity  fraternities,  to  which  they  belonged,  their  faces 
scarred  and  bloated,  their  paunches  belying  their 
youth;  stout  bankers'  and  brokers'  wives  filling  in 
with  pastry  and  heaped  plates  of  strawberries  and 
whipped  cream  the  time  between  their  "second"  break 
fast,  which  they  had  eaten  an  hour  earlier  and  the 
two  o'clock  Sunday  dinner;  more  officers  and  "One 


104  JHE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Year  Volunteers"  of  all  the  branches  of  the  service; 
laughing  Americans,  and  Englishmen  and  Scots  smok 
ing  their  short  briars  very  much  as  in  protest. 

More  passed  down  the  street,  talking  stridently. 
Whole  families  out  for  their  Sunday  promenade,  the 
pater  familias  in  high  hat  and  frock  coat,  the  mother 
in  a  rustling  silk  gown  clashing  horribly  with  heavy 
boots  and  cashmere  stockings,  scolding  the  children. 
Russians  there  were  in  exaggeratedly  modern  clothes; 
a  handsome  Roman  with  the  staring  black  eyes  of 
his  race,  making  the  shameless  love  of  his  race  to 
the  blond,  green-eyed  Castilian  woman  who  tripped  by 
his  side  on  high,  red  Cuban  heels;  a  Chinaman  from 
the  Legation  in  embroidered  peacock  blue  and  looking 
with  conscious  imperturbability  through  his  h  rn- 
rimmed  spectacles ;  a  Lutheran  clergyman  with  curl 
ing  white  side- whiskers  and  a  dusty  bowler  hat;  a 
couple  of  "millionaire  peasants"  from  Teltow,  im 
mense  gold  chains  spanning  their  fat,  peaked  stom 
achs. 

People  on  foot.  People  on  horseback.  Many  in 
motor-cars  of  rakish  shapes.  A  very  few  in  carriages. 

Berlin  taking  its  swagger  Sunday  promenade  in  the 
year  1913,  proud  of  itself,  enormously  certain  of  the 
fact  that  it  was  ahead  of  the  rest  of  the  world  in 
art  and  civilization  and  culture! 

Berlin  a  twelve-month  before  a  mad  Kaiser,  helped 
by  mad  Junkers,  mad  professors,  a  mad  army,  a  mad 
clergy,  assaulted  the  decencies  of  the  world  ...  A 
year  before  the  free  world  rose  in  self-defense  and 
struck  back  at  the  crazed  Beast! 

Berlin,  and  warmth,  and  sunshine.  Thousands 
walking  and  riding  and  driving. 

And  there  were  few  who  did  not  turn  and  look  after 
the  strange  pair:  the  Baron  in  all  the  glory  of  his 


THE  HORSEMAN  105 

regimentals,  riding  his  mare  very  much  like  an  Eng 
lish  squire,  and  the  Westerner,  as  free  and  careless  as 
the  plains  whence  he  had  come,  his  legs  dangling 
loosely,  without  saddle,  fanning  his  horse's  steaming 
nostrils  with  his  stetson  and  letting  out  war-whoops 
from  time  to  time. 

But  few  remarks  were  made.  For  the  Baron  wore 
the  uniform,  the  King's  Coat  that  demanded  respect; 
and  even  Tom  noticed  it. 

"Great  little  talisman,  that  mottled  Joseph's  coat  of 
yours,  Baron,"  he  said;  and  the  other  replied  in  a 
matter-of-fact  voice :  "Of  course.  I'm  an  army  offi 
cer,  you  know — and  these  chaps — civilians,  what?" 
His  lips  went  up  in  a  contemptuous  curl.  The  next 
moment  he  gave  a  cry  of  fear,  of  warning: 

"Look  out,  Graves!     For  God's  sake  .  .  ." 

An  old  lady,  accompanied  by  a  young  girl,  had  tried 
to  cross  the  riding  track,  She  had  fallen.  The  young 
girl  stood  above  her,  white  faced,  shielding  the  frail, 
prone  form  against  the  two  mares  that  came  on  at  a 
thundering,  rushing  gallop,  frightened  at  the  cries  of 
warning  and  horror  that  rose  from  the  people  on 
the  sidewalks. 

Tom  thought,  weighed,  measured,  acted  in  the 
tenth  part  of  a  second. 

The  Baron's  mare  had  taken  the  bit  between  her 
teeth;  she  was  beyond  control.  And  out  flew  Tom's 
left  foot,  kicking  the  Baron's  horse  with  mule-like 
strength  in  the  tender  spot  below  the  shoulder  so  that 
the  brute  swerved,  snorting,  slid,  swerved  again  and 
passed  to  one  side,  barely  grazing  the  old  lady's 
bonnet. 

At  exactly  the  same  instant,  unable  to  stay  his  own 
horse  or  jerk  it  to  one  side,  as  the  sharp  kick  had 
shifted  his  weight  and  balance,  he  leaned  well  for- 


io6  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

ward,  gripping  the  horse's  bare  back  with  his  knees. 
He  clutched  the  mane. 

"Up,  you  devil !     Up,  you  beauty  I" 

And,  adding  his  own  strength,  his  own  skill,  to  that 
of  the  mare,  fairly  lifting  the  animal  bodily,  he  sent 
it  at  a  long,  splendid  jump  over  and  across  the  head 
of  the  young  girl,  not  even  touching  her. 

Twenty  feet  further  he  brought  the  mare  to  a  stop. 
He  jumped  down  and  ran  back.  The  girl  had  fainted. 

He  looked  at  her. 

"Why,  Bertha!     Dear!"  he  stammered. 

A  moment  later,  she  regained  consciousness. 

"How  is  grandmother?"  she  asked  feebly;  then 
she  fainted  again;  and  ready  hands  carried  both  her 
and  old  Mrs.  Wedekind  to  a  motor-car  that  had  pulled 
up  at  the  curb. 

The  German  officer  looked  at  Tom  admiringly. 

"Gad!"  he  said.     "You  can  ride!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   OLD   WOMAN    SPEAKS 

BERTHA  left  the  room. 

She  had  escaped  without  a  scratch,  and  was  off 
to  dress  for  a  dinner  dance  to  be  given  that  night  by 
the  bachelor  officers  of  the  Uhlans  of  the  Guard,  leav 
ing  her  grandmother  alone  with  Tom  Graves,  who 
had  called,  armed  with  a  gigantic  box  of  roses,  violets, 
and  orchids,  to  inquire  after  the  health  of  the  two 
ladies. 

Old  Mrs.  Wedekind  lay  on  the  couch  in  her  little 
boudoir  furnished  in  a  style  different  from  the  usual 
neo-German  affair,  crowded  with  ornaments  that  were 
no  decorations,  and  with  decorations  that  were  no 
ornaments,  with  bulbous  or  angular  monstrosities  in 
wood  or  metal  that  were  the  fruit  of  some  diseased 
artist  brain  from  Berlin  or  Munich.  The  little  octag 
onal,  balconied  room  spoke  of  a  former  generation, 
both  more  gentle  and  more  sophisticated.  There  was 
a  simple  rug  of  taupe  and  claret  velvet,  gray  panelings 
of  carved  tulip  wood,  a  lightly  frivolous  touch  in  the 
figures  of  women  and  tiny,  paunchy  cupids  surrounded 
by  love  trophies  which  filled  the  angles  of  the  cor 
nices.  There  were  some  fine  old  enameled  plates 
framed  in  dark  green  velvet,  frail  Tanagra  statuettes 
and  frailer  tortoise-shell  boxes;  a  mass  of  cushions 
covered  with  sumptuous  Byzantine  dalmatics,  and  a 
great  Sevres  vase  topped  by  a  delicate,  silvery  spray 
of  guelder  roses. 

107 


io8  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Mrs.  Wedekind  was  past  eighty  years  of  age  and, 
besides  Heinrich  and  Martin,  she  had  given  birth  to 
four  daughters  all  married  to  high  ranking  officials  in 
the  judiciary  and  all  mothers  of  large  families  of  their 
own.  But  she  was  still  full  of  vitality,  eagerly  inter 
ested  in  what  was  going  on  in  the  world. 

She  smiled  to  herself  as  she  lay  there,  studying 
Tom's  open,  boyish  features  with  her  shrewd,  snap 
ping  old  eyes  that  sparkled  under  bushy  eyebrows, 
above  which  rose  a  high,  wrinkled  forehead  negli 
gently  dusted  with  Rachel  rice  powder. 

The  daughter  of  a  Westphalian  nobleman,  she  had 
married  Martin's  father,  a  Biirgerlicher,  a  commoner, 
in  the  teeth  of  her  family's  aristocratic  prejudices;  and 
she  still  belonged  to  a  former  generation  that  had 
taken  its  cue  from  the  best  in  Paris,  that  spoke 
French  by  preference,  and  German  with  a  faintly 
French  accent.  The  new  Prussia  rather  bored  her. 
To  her  it  seemed  too  much  flavored,  as  she  expressed 
it,  with  kitchen,  nursery,  and  sabers. 

"New  Prussia  is  frightfully  bad  form,"  she  would 
say  at  times  to  her  intimates,  and  even  to  her  son 
Heinrich,  who  would  invariably  reply:  "Yes,  yes, 
Hebe  Mutter,  but  please  keep  your  opinion  to  yourself. 
Don't  forget  .  .  ." 

"I  know,"  she  would  reply,  with  a  malicious  twinkle 
in  her  eyes,  "you  are  in  the  army  and  my  respected 
sons-in-law  are  Beamten,  officials.  And — honestly, 
Heinrich! — once  in  a  while  I  forget  that  my  father 
was  a  Baron  von  Sierstorpff,  and  then  I  feel  a  good 
deal  of  sympathy  for  the  unwashed  ruffians  of  the 
French  revolution.  Now  that  precious  Emperor  of 
yours  .  .  ." 

"Mother!  Mother!  You  are  speaking  of  the  All- 
Gracious  .  ." 


THE  OLD  WOMAN  SPEAKS  109 

"Fiddlesticks,  Heinrich!  The  Barons  of  the  house 
of  Sierstorpff  are  a  much  older  and  a  much  better 
family  than  your  Hohenzollern  parvenus !" 

In  her  youth  she  had  been  an  enthusiastic  horse 
woman,  riding  both  to  stag  and  fox  hounds,  and  she 
had  told  Tom  how  she  admired  his  feat  of  that 
morning. 

"You  saved  my  life,  young  man,"  she  said  in  her 
sharp,  didactic  old  voice,  and  when  Tom  shook  his 
head  and  mumbled  something  about  it  being  not  worth 
mentioning,  she  replied: 

"I  do  not  think  my  life  is  much  to  bother  about 
either  way.  I  am  past  the  biblical  limit — you  see,  as  I 
am  getting  older,  I  try  to  believe  in  the  Bible,  so  as 
to  be  on  the  safe  side.  But  Bertha  .  .  .  There's  a 
young  life  you  saved  .  .  ." 

And  then,  quite  suddenly,  she  looked  straight  at 
Tom  Graves  and  went  on : 

"Young  man,  will  you  take  the  advice  of  an  old 
woman  who  is  not  quite  as  blind  as  her  children  like 
to  believe?" 

"Sure."     Tom  was  embarrassed. 

"Very  well,  then.     Leave  Germany." 

"Why,  yes.  I  wasn't  going  to  live  here.  I'm  going 
back  home,  to  Spokane." 

"All  right.  Go.  But  don't  dally.  Leave  just  as 
soon  as  you  can." 

"But,  Mrs.  Wedekind!"  Tom  was  both  flustered 
and  hurt.  "I  know  I'm  a  free  and  easy  sort  of  chap. 
I  know  that  once  in  a  while  I  say  things  I  oughtn't, 
and  do  things  that  I  ..." 

"It  isn't  that." 

"Well— what  is  it?" 

"Don't  ask  me  for  my  reasons,  young  man.  Do 
not  quote  me,  either.  I  am  telling  you  confidentially, 


no  iTHE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

because  I  like  you,  and  because  you  have  saved  my 
life  and  Bertha's.  Yet,  if  you  should  quote  me,  I 
shall  simply  deny  that  I  ever  said  a  single  word  to  you 
on  the  subject.  But  take  my  advice !" 

"But— why?" 

She  sat  up  on  her  couch,  her  fine  old  eyes  sparkling 
with  intelligence  and  with  a  motherly  sympathy  for 
the  young  horse  wrangler. 

"Mr.  Graves,"  she  said,  "you  are  an  honest  man,  a 
simple  man,  a  clean  man.  All  considered  virtues  in 
your  native  West,  I  have  no  doubt,  and  virtues  once 
in  this  Germany  of  mine.  But  to-day  honesty  and 
simplicity  are  at  a  discount  in  Berlin.  They  are  con 
sidered  morganatic  virtues,  virtues  on  the  left  hand, 
to  be  sneered  at,  to  be  meanly  pitied,  purposely  mis 
understood.  A  simple  man,  a  man  of  fine,  square, 
old-fashioned  ideals — ein  echter  Ehrenmann,  as  we 
say,  rather,  used  to  say  in  Germany — has  no  business 
here!" 

And  she  dismissed  Tom,  who  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  knowing  neither  why  he  did  it  nor  how,  bent 
over  a  woman's  hand  and  raised  it  respectfully  to 
his  lips. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

LORD  VYVYAN    SPEAKS 

A  WEEK  later — and  it  was  a  week  crowded  with 
dinners  and  suppers  and  theater  parties  and  dances, 
with  the  tawdry,  hectic  frivolities  of  Berlin  At  Night 
where  Tom  was  usually  the  guest  of  Baron  von  Gotz- 
Wrede,  who  was  trying,  he  said,  to  repay  a  fraction 
of  the  splendid  hospitality  with  which  he  had  been 
treated  in  Spokane — old  Mrs.  Wedekind's  warning 
was  repeated. 

Tom  Graves  had  not  seen  very  much  of  Lord 
Vyvyan  during  the  last  days.  Nor  was  it  his  fault. 
He  would  have  liked  to  introduce  him  into  the  gay 
set  in  which  he  was  moving,  had  even  suggested  it  to 
the  Baron,  who  shrugged  his  expressive  shoulders  and 
said  with  a  drawl,  not  a  very  cordial  one,  that  of 
course  any  friend  of  Tom's  was  welcome.  Tom  no 
ticed  the  lack  of  cordiality,  but  decided  to  overlook  it, 
for,  as  he  put  it  in  a  letter  to  Martin  Wedekind: 
"Most  of  these  young  Prussian  fellows  seem  to  have 
b^en  born  with  a  sneer  on  their  faces.  I  guess  they 
can't  help  it.  Must  be  merry  hell  to  live  in  a  country 
where  every  man  you  meet  is  either  your  superior  or 
your  inferior — never  your  equal !" 

It  was  Lord  Vyvyan's  own  fault  that  he  had  not 
seen  more  of  Tom  since  coming  to  Berlin,  and  he 
explained  that  he  was  being  kept  frightfully  busy  at  the 
Embassy;  said  he  fancied  "Old  Titmouse" — that's  how 

in 


112  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

he  had  nicknamed  Sir  Francis  Bartlett,  the  ambassador 
— -was  deviling  his  soul  to  make  him  pay  for  the  mess 
he  had  got  into  in  Washington. 

But,  late  one  Saturday  evening,  having  first  made 
sure  that  the  Westerner  was  at  home,  he  called  on  him. 

"Hullo,  hullo,  hullo !"  he  greeted  him  with  his  usual 
cheerful,  slightly  inane  manner,  sat  down,  and  asked 
for  a  cigar. 

Krauss,  who  hovered  in  the  background,  brought  a 
box  of  panatellas,  which  the  Englishman  examined 
critically. 

"Not  your  brand?"  asked  Tom. 

"I  know  I  am  a  tactless  beast,  Graves,"  replied 
Vyvyan.  "But,  you  know,  I  must  have  one  of  those 
fat,  pudgy  little  Bock  havanas.  Dined  with  the  Tit 
mouse,  and  the  old  boy  fed  me  on  greasy  mutton  and 
caper  sauce.  I  need  a  havana,  a  Bock,  to  drive  away 
the  mutton  grease,  what  ?" 

"I'm  sorry/'  laughed  Tom.  "Panatellas  is  all  I  have 
in  the  house." 

"Oh  .  .  .  Send  out  that  man  of  yours.  Here. 
I'll  tell  him  where  to  buy  them."  And  he  told  Krauss 
exactly  where  to  go.  "There's  a  little  store  just  the 
other  side  of  the  Friedrich  Strasse  two  doors  from 
the  corner  of  the  Behren  Strasse — on  the  south  side. 
Ask  for  Boch  claros,  number  four.  Tell  'em  they're 
for  Lord  Vyvyan  of  the  British  Embassy." 

"But,  Milord,"  suggested  Krauss,  bowing,  "it  will 
take  me  half  an  hour  to  get  there  and  half  an  hour 
to  return  .  .  ." 

"That's  all  right,  Krauss.  I'm  always  willing  to 
wait  for  a  pretty  woman  or  a  good  smoke." 

"But,  Milord,"  the  valet  was  evidently  flustered. 
"I  am  sure  I  can  get  you  the  right  sort  of  cigars  at 
the  corner  store  below!" 


LORD  VYVYAN  SPEAKS  113 

"No,  no,  no!  I'm  rather  a  bit  fussy  about  my 
'baccy." 

"Sure,"  agreed  Tom  heartily.  "I  feel  lost  myself 
when  I  can't  get  Duke's  Mixture  and  brown  paper. 
Don't  argue,  Krauss.  Get  the  cigars.  A  little  fresh 
air  will  do  you  good." 

Krauss  left,  and  as  soon  as  the  outer  door  had 
closed,  Vyvyan  turned  to  Tom. 

"Graves,"  he  said,  without  the  slightest  preamble, 
"leave  Berlin !" 

"Gosh — there's  that  same  old  croaking  again!" 

"Again?"  Vyvyan  pounced  on  the  word.  "Did 
somebody  else  warn  you?" 

"You  bet.  Seems  to  me  I'm  considerable  pumpkins 
here  the  way  folks  look  after  me." 

"Who  warned  you?"  insisted  the  other. 

"Old  Mrs.  Wedekind,  the  Colonel's  mother— and, 
believe  me,  she's  a  dear !"  The  words  were  out  of  his 
mouth  before  he  thought.  Too  late  he  remembered 
that  the  ofd  lady  had  asked  him  not  to  quote  her. 

Vyvyan  looked  very  serious. 

"Graves,"  he  said,  "that  woman  is  a  good  friend 
of  yours." 

"Sure.     I  know." 

"And,  Graves,"  continued  the  Englishman,  rather 
haltingly,  being  an  Anglo-Saxon,  thus  wooden,  flus 
tered,  easily  embarrassed  when  giving  voice  to  an  emo 
tion,  "so  am  I — a  good  friend  of  yours !" 

"You  bet !"  replied  the  Westerner,  impulsively  shak 
ing  the  other's  hand. 

They  were  silent.  They  knew  that  they  were  good 
friends  and  that,  though  they  had  known  each  other 
only  a  fortnight  or  so,  though  no  chance  had  risen 
through  which  to  probe  each  other's  heart  and  soul, 
they  utterly  trusted  one  another.  Yet,  immediately, 


H4  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Tom  felt  that,  in  spite  of  it,  there  was  to-night  a  slight 
barrier  of  reserve  between  him  and  the  Englishman, 
and  that  it  was  of  the  latter's  making.  He  felt  it,  and 
said  nothing.  For  he  knew  how  honorable  a  mutual 
reserve  can  be  between  friends,  how  it  is  the  great, 
deep,  sudden  silences  that  are  the  real  proof  of  friend 
ship. 

So  he  tried  to  change  the  conversation. 

"I  had  a  cable  this  morning  from  Spokane.  A  lit 
tle  annoying  .  .  ." 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  the  Englishman,  returning 
to  the  first  subject  with  the  pertinacity  of  his  race; 
and,  suddenly  assuming  his  habitual  drawl  and  slang: 
"Graves,  at  times  I  am  most  frightfully  bored  with  my 
jolly,  pig-headed  old  ancestors/' 

"Are  you?" 

"Rather!  They  made  such  a  damnable  blunder 
when  they  gave  you  Colonial  Yanks  a  chance  to  kick 
— and  incidentally  lick  us.  Hang  it,  old  chap — you 
and  I  are  of  the  same  breed,  the  same  blood,  the  same 
decencies,  the  same  jolly  old  saving  prejudices.  There 
are  some  things  you  and  I  wouldn't  do — simply  be 
cause  they  aren't  done.  Well,  I  am  not  trying  to  gush. 
I'm  not  that  sort.  But — I  wish  you  were  an  Eng 
lishman!" 

"I  don't !"  screamed  the  eagle. 

"Don't  be  a  silly,  bloody  jackass!  I  didn't  mean 
to  offend  you.  But  I  wish — yes — I  wish  your  nation 
and  mine  would  stop  talking  of  what  happened  over 
a  hundred  years  ago.  I  wish  Great  Britain  and 
America  would  talk  together  frankly,  act  together — 
and  prevent  together.  I  wish  .  .  ."  He  caught  him 
self.  "Never  mind.  I'm  not  the  Prime  Minister  and 
you're  not  the  President.  All  I  ask  you  is  to  get  out 
of  Germany." 


LORD  VYVYAN  SPEAKS  115 

"I  won't." 

"Why  did  you  come  here?" 

"To — to  ...     I  told  you  on  board  ship." 

"Right-oh !"  said  Vyvyan.  "To  keep  your  promise 
to  that  German  Baron — and  to  get  away  from  a  girl." 

"What  of  it?"  asked  Tom,  a  little  belligerently. 

"Oh — nothing  much.  Only,  remember  tellin'  me 
about  the  cable  Miss  Wedekind  received,  begging  her 
to  hurry  to  Berlin,  since  her  grandmother  was  about 
to  kick  the  jolly  old  bucket?" 

"Well?" 

"Grandmother  hasn't  kicked  the  bucket  yet !  Grand 
mother  is  as  hale  as  a  four-year  filly !" 

"There  was  a  mistake  in  the  cable." 

"Of  course  there  was,  Graves.  That's  what  cables 
are  for — German  cables— to  make  mistakes,  to  forge 
words.  That's  how  they  bullied  France  into  the  War 
of  Seventy — by  making  a  little  mistake  in  a  telegram. 
I  know."  Again  he  caught  himself  and  returned  to 
the  subject.  "Graves,"  he  continued,  "mistake  or  no 
mistake — she  received  that  message  after  you  left 
Spokane — and  she  is  here!" 

"Yes,  yes."     The  Westerner  was  getting  irritated. 

"Don't  you  think,"  went  on  Vyvyan  very  gravely, 
"that  she  was  sent  for — that  she  is  being  used,  I  mean, 
like — oh — a  bait?  Like  a  web,  to  keep  you  here?" 

"Me !"  Tom  laughed.  "Gosh !  I'm  not  of  enough 
importance." 

"Not  personally,  perhaps.  But  there  may  be  some 
thing  you  possess  that  is  of  importance." 

"Hell !  I've  got  nothing  in  the  world  except  a  sense 
of  humor,  good  health — and  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory 
mine !" 

"Right."  The  Englishman  jumped  up.  "Look 
here.  I'll  tell  you  .  .  ." 


n6  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

The  next  moment  he  was  silent.  He  shook  his 
head. 

"Sorry,  old  chap,"  he  continued.  "Can't  tell  you. 
There  was  that  silly  old  ass  of  a  King  George  the 
Third  who  split  yd9l£  nation  and  mine.  I  made  one 
mistake — in  Washington — and  I've  learned  my  lesson. 
Only  remember !"  He  stepped  up  close  to  his  friend. 
"If  ever  you  should  get  into  trouble  here  in  Berlin, 
if  by  any  chance  your  American  Ambassador  should 
refuse  to  help  you,  or  should  be  unable  to  help 
you  .  .  ." 

"Lord!  I  shan't  get  into  any  trouble.  And  why, 
if  I  did,  should  our  Embassy  refuse  to  help?" 

"Purely  hypothetical,  old  dear!  But,  given  the 
double  hypothesis — your  trouble  and  your  Ambassa 
dor's  refusal  or  inability — remember  that  I  work  at 
the  British  Embassy,  in  the  Wilhelm  Strasse,  three 
doors  from  Unter  den  Linden !" 

"Unless,"  laughed  Tom,  "you  yourself  get  into  an 
other  row  with  your  people  and  get  chucked,  as  you 
did  in  Washington!" 

"Right.  Bright  lad !"  said  the  Englishman,  but  he 
was  very  serious.  "There  is  always  a  possibility  that 
I  ..." 

He  drew  a  ring  from  his  pocket  and  asked  Tom 
to  examine  it  very  thoroughly.  Tom  did.  It  was  a 
simple  affair  of  silver  with  the  figure  of  a  grayhound 
engraved  on  the  round  shield  and  above  it  the  letters 
B.  E.  D. 

"Know  that  ring  now  ?"  asked  Vyvyan. 

"Yes." 

"Remember  if  you'd  see  it  again?" 

"Yes." 

"Positive?" 


LORD  VYVYAN  SPEAKS  117 

"Yes,  yes!     Sure!     Why?" 

Vyvyan  slipped  the  ring  back  in  his  pocket. 

"Just  this/'  he  said.  "If,  I  repeat,  you  should  ever 
get  into  trouble  and  your  Ambassador  can't  help  you, 
if  by  that  time  I  should  have  left  Berlin,  you  must 
go  to  the  British  Embassy.  Any  time  of  the  day  or 
the  night.  Once  inside  the  building  you  must  use  your 
own  wits.  You  must  find,  somehow,  without  asking 
too  many  questions,  the  man  who  has  the  duplicate 
to  this  ring.  Him  you  can  trust.  And  nobody  else. 
Also,  forget  what  I  told  you  to-night !" 

Tom  laughed.  "Quite  like  an  old-fashioned  melo 
drama,  with  me  as  the  villain,  isn't  it?" 

"I  hope  you  won't  be  the  persecuted  hero,"  smiled 
Vyvyan,  and  then,  to  turn  the  conversation:  "You 
said  something  about  a  cable  you  got  from  Spokane?" 

"Yes.  Some  mistake,  I  guess.  Seems  mv  old  part 
ner,  Truex,  died  up  North,  in  the  British  Columbia 
wilderness,  about  a  week  back,  and  a  nephew  of  his 
turned  up,  son  of  that  sister  who  ran  away  with  the 
foreign  fiddler.  Seems  he's  trying  to  make  a  row. 
Says  I  swindled  old  Truex.  That  really  Truex 
owned  a  controlling  interest  in  the  mine." 

"What's  the  nephew's  name?" 

"Lehneke.  Eberhardt  Lehneke.  Young  German. 
Hasn't  been  over  there  very  long,  the  cable  says." 

"Who  sent  you  the  cable?" 

"Martin  Wedekind." 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I'm  going  to  fight  the  young  cub  and  lick  him.  I 
cabled  straight  back  to  Martin  and  to  Alec  Wynn, 
my  lawyer.  Just  some  darned  hold-up  game.  But, 
believe  me,  I'll  beat  that  young  Mister  Lehneke !" 

"Gad!"  said  Vyvyan,  with  utter  sincerity,  "I  hope 


n8          THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

to  God  you  will,  Graves!"  And  he  added,  after  a 
moment's  thought :  "Don't  you  think  you'd  better  go 
back  to  Spokane  and  supervise  the  fight  yourself?" 

Tom  shook  his  head. 

"Vyvyan,"  he  replied,  "I'm  not  going  to  leave  Ber 
lin,  happen  what  may,  without  ..." 

"Without?" 

"Without  Bertha!     Bertha  Wedekind!" 

The  Englishman  was  studying  the  pattern  of  the 
rug. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  murmured,  half  to  him 
self. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  VOICE  OF  BERLIN 

TOM  GRAVES  loved  Bertha  Wedekind  with  all  his 
fine,  pure,  close-fibered  strength. 

But  he  was  no  purblind  fool. 

Never  having  had  much  experience  with  women,  his 
judgment  was  fresh  and  unclouded.  He  was  free 
from  the  incubus  of  lying  sensuality.  Thus  he  recog 
nized  her  faults ;  and  he  loved  her  none  the  less  dearly. 

And  her  greatest  fault,  rather  her  misfortune,  was 
that  at  the  most  impressionable  stage  of  her  girlhood, 
she  had  come  under  the  spell  and  glamour,  for  spell 
and  glamour  it  was  for  all  its  harsh,  mean  lawdriness, 
of  the  Prussian  military  clique. 

Her  experience  in  life  was  nil.  Her  knowledge  of 
history,  civilization,  and  economics  was  the  usual  use 
less  average,  the  usual  useless  hodge-podge  of  school 
text-books  and  romantic  fiction. 

Carefully  hedged  in  by  her  Uncle  Heinrich,  by  her 
uncle's  friends,  by  the  young  officers  and  high  officials 
she  met,  she  was  only  allowed  to  see  what  was  best 
in  Berlin,  and  in  a  mistaken  sweep  of  loyalty  to  her 
father's  native  land  she  compared  it  with  what  was 
worst  in  America.  She  gloried  in  the  pomp  and  cir 
cumstance,  enthusiasm  shining  in  her  clear  young  eyes 
when  she  walked  down  Unter  den  Linden  with  Baron 
Horst  von  Gotz-Wrede  or  the  little  Hussar,  when  she 

119 


120  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

felt  the  respect  and  admiration  with  which  the  civilians 
regarded  her  martial  companions. 

Her  former  life  in  Spokane  flashed  up  at  such  mo 
ments  in  sad,  gray  streaks  of  remembrance.  At  the 
time  it  had  been  pleasant  enough,  she  thought,  with 
the  weekly  hops  at  the  Country  Club,  the  horseback 
rides  in  the  evenings  across  Hangman's  Creek  and  out 
to  Fort  Wright,  the  quiet,  simple,  sunny  summers 
spent  at  Hayden  Lake  or  on  the  Killicott  ranch,  the 
plain-spoken,  square-shouldered  men,  mining  engi 
neers,  ranchers,  merchants,  lawyers,  and  young  Cana 
dian  bank  clerks  from  the  local  branch  of  the  Bank 
of  Montreal,  who  called  each  other  Tom  and  Dick 
and  Jack  and  Jim. 

No!  Back  yonder  there  had  been  no  romance,  no 
glamour,  no  clanking  of  sabers,  no  clicking  of  heels, 
no  kissing  of  hands,  no  whispering  of :  "Griddigstes 
Fraulein,  Sie  sehen  ja  ganz  fabelhaft  enizuckend  aus!" 
no  gay,  challenging  music  of  fife  and  drum. 

Looking  through  the  spectacles  of  her  youthful 
imagination,  she  admired  and  loved  this  new  Berlin 
which  had  sprung  up,  fungus-like,  since  the  Franco- 
Prussian  War,  which  had  been  built  up  with  the  money 
stolen  from  France.  She  was  untrained  in  artistic 
judgment,  and  she  admired  the  broad,  sweeping  streets 
framed  by  houses  tumbled  together  of  every  style  from 
peaked  Gothic  to  ultra-modern  Secession;  the  depart 
ment  stores  that  tried  to  look  like  Florentine  cathedrals 
and  the  churches  that  tried  to  look  like  department 
stores ;  the  rococo  palaces  of  the  nouveaux  riches  dec 
orated  with  meaningless  stucco  ornaments  and  mon 
strous  caryatides  supporting  nothing  in  particular ;  the 
great  public  ballroom  of  the  Behren  Strasse,  the  Palais 
de  Danse  that  endeavored  to  go  Paris  one  better  by 
using  fifteen  colors,  clashing,  cruel,  hideous,  where  the 


THE  VOICE  OF  BERLIN  121 

same  French  artist  had  used  no  more  than  three,  per 
fectly  blended. 

Bertha  was  too  young  to  understand  the  over- 
emphatic,  umesthetic,  bragging  spirit  of  it  all.  She 
was  caught  in  the  whirl  of  gayety. 

And  there  was  gayety  in  the  Berlin  of  the  Autumn 
of  the  year  Nineteen  Hundred  and  Thirteen,  nine 
months  before  the  War.  A  future  historian  may 
some  day  call  it  the  hysterical  gayety  that  precedes 
the  coming  of  madness. 

Madness  of  too  sudden  success ! 

Madness  of  a  nation,  overfed,  oversexed,  cursed 
with  national  paranoia,  intoxicated  with  the  poisonous 
wine  of  self-glory! 

Laughing,  screaming,  shouting  madness  that  wound 
up  in  blood,  and  misery,  and  cruelties  unspeakable — 
and  punishment ! 

All  that  autumn  Berlin  danced.  Berlin  flirted. 
Berlin  laughed.  Berlin  spent  money  like  water.  And 
the  clique  in  the  Wilhelm  Strasse,  the  rulers  of  Ger 
many,  helped  it  along.  They  realized  their  own  dan 
ger.  They  decided  that  there  should  be  no  national, 
wholesale  awakening  to  the  fact  that  the  huge  busi 
ness  colossus  of  modern  Germany  had  feet  of  clay,  a 
heart  that  was  hollow,  and  empty  pockets,  that  over- 
speculation  had  drained  the  imperial  exchequer  and 
that  the  most  gigantic  national  failure  and  bankruptcy 
was  imminent. 

The  exchequer  must  be  filled.  And  there  was  but 
one  way  to  do  it : 

Conquest !     Conquest  by  the  sword ! 

In  the  meantime,  until  the  blow  was  struck,  swiftly 
and  successfully,  the  people  of  Germany  must  be  kept 
in  good  humor. 

On  with  the  dance ! — was  the  dictum  of  the  Wilhelm 


122  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Strasse.  Sing  and  drink  and  shout!  Spend  money! 
Buy,  buy,  buy! 

On  with  the  whirl  of  gayety !  .  .  .  Lest  the  people 
see  the  misery,  the  terrible  threat  of  failure  and  bank 
ruptcy  that  yawned  at  their  feet  like  an  abyss  of  Fate, 
lest  they  see  beneath  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of 
glittering  uniforms  and  recognize  the  grinning  skele 
tons  .  .  .  Like  symbolic  shapes! 

Horribly  expressive  of  something! 

Suggestive  of — what  ? 

And  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  with  the  best  in  the  land, 
Bertha  danced.  Of  course  she  saw  a  lot  of  Tom 
for  the  young  Westerner  went  everywhere,  was  in 
vited  everywhere,  and  he,  too,  enjoyed  himself.  It 
amused  him  to  meet  Princes  of  the  blood  and  aristo 
crats,  who  boasted  twenty-four  quarterings  on  their 
armorial  shields.  There  was  not  the  faintest  shade 
of  snobbishness  in  him.  But  the  surface  of  his  mood 
was  exuberant.  He  felt  an  almost  boyish  delight, 
tempered  with  whimsical  humor,  in  his  growing  power 
to  comport  himself  correctly  towards  the  elite  of  Ber 
lin — and  his  correctness  spelled  simplicity,  manliness, 
the  natural,  good-humored  dignity  of  the  free  man 
of  the  plains. 

As  such  he  was  accepted  by  the  young  officers  and, 
if  the  truth  be  told,  really  liked. 

Bertha,  too,  liked  him,  had  always  liked  him,  occa 
sional  tiffs  apart,  with  unquestioning  fondness.  But 
rather  with  the  sort  of  fondness  one  has  for  a  beloved 
and  thoroughly  satisfying  domestic  animal. 

But  love?    Real  flesh-and-blood  love? 

"No,  Tom,"  she  said,  a  little  sadly,  when,  one  Octo 
ber  evening,  he  had  asked  her  for  the  tenth  time  that 
month  to  marry  him  and  to  return  with  him  to  Spo 
kane.  "I  do  not  love  you — and  I  shan't  marry  you." 


THE  VOICE  OF  BERLIN  123 

"Still  the  same  old  reason,  I  guess  ?"  he  smiled. 

"What  ever  do  you  mean,  Tom?" 

"Go  on!  You  know  well  enough,"  he  said  rather 
brutally.  "You  wouldn't  marry  me  even  if  you  loved 
me  .  .  ." 

"Which  I  don't!" 

"All  right.  But  even  if  you  did,  you  wouldn't 
marry  me.  Because  .  .  ." 

"Let's  change  the  subject,  Tom !" 

"I  won't!  I  repeat  you  won't  marry  me  because  I 
am  not  wearing  one  of  those  cute,  pea-green  monkey- 
jackets  and  because  I  don't  drag  three  foot  of  pointed 
steel  behind  me." 

"Well?"  demanded  Bertha  belligerently,  "suppose 
you  are  right?  Wrhat  are  you  going  to  do  about  it, 
Tom?" 

"Do  about  it?  Why!  I  am  going  to  get  me  that 
monkey-jacket  and  that  bit  of  steel.  That's  all!" 

And  Bertha  would  not  have  laughed  had  she  known 
what  had  happened  to  Tom  during  the  last  couple  of 
days. 


CHAPTER  XX 

WHAT  HAPPENED  BACK  HOME 

BACK  in  Spokane,  about  a  week  earlier,  lawyer 
Alec  Wynn  had  paid  a  late  call  on  Martin  Wedekind. 

"Well,  Alec/'  asked  the  latter,  anxiously,  "how's 
it  coming  on?" 

"Punk.  Pretty  damned  punk.  I  am  afraid  that 
Tom  Graves  has  not  a  leg  to  stand  on." 

"Oh,  well,  Alec,  you're  a  lawyer,  a  professional  pes 
simist.  You're  paid  to  look  at  the  hopeless  side  of 
life,  you  know." 

"No,  Martin.  It  looks  bad.  Honest,  it  does! 
Have  a  peep  at  this !"  He  opened  his  leather  case  and 
took  out  a  sheet  of  foolscap,  sealed  with  the  arms  of 
the  Dominion  of  Canada.  "An  affidavit,  executed  in 
regular  form,  attesting  and  swearing  to  'Old  Man1 
Truex's  death.  Signed  by  the  coroner  of  Crow's  Nest 
Pass,  and  by  three  witnesses!" 

"Who  are  the  witnesses  ?     Let's  see !" 

Alec  Wynn  pointed  at  the  scrawling  signatures. 

"John  Good  .  .  ." 

"The  fellow  who  keeps  that  ramshackle  hotel  and 
bar  at  the  Crow's  Nest?" 

"Yes,  Martin.     The  same." 

"He's  a  bad  actor.  Used  to  be  a  cattle  rustler  in 
the  old  days  before  the  Royal  Northwestern  cleaned 
up  the  land." 

The  lawyer  inclined  his  head. 

124 


WHAT  HAPPENED  BACK  HOME       125 

"Sure/'  he  said.  "I  know.  Good  gives  the  lie  eter 
nal  to  his  name.  He's  no  good  at  all.  Neither 
are  the  other  witnesses.  See  here!  Arthur  For- 
sythe  .  .  ." 

"That  shyster  lawyer  from  Fernie,  B.  C.  ?" 

"Right — and  Lawrence  Walsh." 

"Who's  he?" 

"Chap  from  Berlin  .  .  ." 

"Berlin !"  cut  in  Wedekind  excitedly. 

"Berlin,  Ontario,"  laughed  Wynn.  "He  isn't  a 
German.  Walsh.  Irish  name,  that !  Came  to  West 
ern  Canada  about  a  year  ago,  and  my  brother  Roy 
had  some  rather  unpleasant  business  dealings  with 
him." 

"So  it  seems  that  all  the  three  witnesses  are  a 
bit  .  .  ." 

"Off  color?"  asked  the  lawyer.  "Sure  enough. 
But  the  coroner  believes  them  evidently.  There's  the 
cold-blooded  legal  fact.  According  to  the  regular 
Canadian  records  Truex  is  dead.  Slipped  off  his 
horse,  tumbled  down  a  mountain-side,  broke  his  neck, 
and  was  buried." 

"Yes,  yes!"  Martin  Wedekind  rose  and  paced  up 
and  down  the  room.  "And  yet,"  he  said,  "some 
how  .  .  ." 

"Somehow  you  don't  believe  that  Truex  is  dead. 
Somehow  you  think  the  whole  thing  is  a  cooked-up 
game  to  cheat  friend  Graves !" 

"Exactly!" 

"But  you  can  do  nothing,"  continued  Wynn,  "un 
less  you  produce  the  old  prospector  in  the  flesh." 

Wedekind  stopped  in  front  of  the  lawyer. 

"Alec,"  he  said,  "I  have  reasons,  good,  sound  rea 
sons,  for  believing  what  I  do  believe — namely,  that 
Truex  is  alive,  that  Lehneke — or  the  party  Lehneke 


126          THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

acts  for — is  trying  to  do  Tom  out  of  the  Yankee  Doo 
dle  Glory." 

"What  are  your  reasons  ?" 

"I  can't  tell  you,  Alec." 

"I  always  thought  you  and  I  were  pretty  good 
friends/' 

"We  are,  Alec.  But  I  can't  tell  you  just  the  same. 
Only — don't  give  in.  Fight — that!"  bringing  his  fist 
down  on  the  Canadian  affidavit.  "Get  the  body  ex 
humed.  Have  a  look  at  it." 

"Impossible!" 

"How  so?" 

"Impossible  without  long  legal  rigmaroles,"  the 
lawyer  corrected  himself.  "They  cost  both  time  and 
money." 

"I'll  supply  the  money,  Alec!" 

"Yes,  yes.  But  the  time.  Who  in  Hades  is  going 
to  supply  the  time?  You  see,  while  you  and  I'd  be 
getting  ready  to  carry  that  affidavit  mess  into  the  Pro 
vincial  Supreme  Court,  Lehneke  has  Tom  by  the  short 
hair  on  his  neck.  Look  at  this!"  And  he  flung  a 
long,  legal-looking  document  on  the  table. 

"See?"  he  continued.  "Statement  sworn  to  by  the 
German  Consul-General  in  New  York  and  declaring 
that  Eberhardt  Lehneke  is  the  only  son  and  heir  of 
Paul  Lehneke  and  Mary  Lehneke,  both  deceased. 
Also  statement  by  the  same  Consul-General  swearing 
that  he  has  on  files  in  the  consular  archives  a  certif 
icate  of  marriage  contracted  between  Paul  Lehneke 
and  Mary  Truex,  only  sister  of  'Old  Man'  Truex,  and 
daughter  of  John  and  Priscilla  Truex,  natives  of 
Oswego,  N.  Y.  And  birth  certificate  of  Mary  Leh 
neke,  nee  Truex — and  half-a-dozen  other  papers,  es 
tablishing  young  Lehneke's  position  as  Truex's  heir 
without  the  shadow  of  a  doubt." 


WHAT  HAPPENED  BACK  HOME      127 

"But  .  .  ." 

"Wait!  Here's  still  another  paper  to  complete  the 
sweet  circle.  Look.  An  injunction  handed  down 
this  afternoon  by  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  State  of 
Washington,  making  it  incumbent  upon  Tom  Graves 
to  give  a  complete  accounting  of  ore  taken,  shipped 
and  sold  from  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  mine,  in- 
juncting  his  further  working  of  the  mine  until  the  case 
has  been  settled  and  turning  over  Tom's  money  in  the 
Old  National  to  a  receiver  until  that  same  date.  Not 
only  that.  Lehneke  seems  to  be  ace  high  back  home 
in  Germany.  For  they  even  got  busy  there  and  put 
their  paws  on  Tom's  money  in  the  Deutsche  Bank  in 
Berlin.  I  tell  you  Graves  is  in  a  rotten  bad  hole, 
Martin!" 

"Only  for  the  time-being.  I  know  that  youngster. 
I  tell  you  he'll  fight  harder  than  ever." 

"I  hope  so.  But  meanwhile  he's  in  Berlin,  strapped 
to  his  last  ducat,  I  reckon.  What  in  thunder  is  the 
poor  boy  going  to  do?" 

And  exactly  the  same  question  was  bothering  Tom 
a  few  days  before  his  interview  with,  and  his  tenth 
proposal  that  month  to,  Bertha. 

"What  am  I  going  to  do?"  he  asked  himself,  read 
ing  over  Alec  Wynn's  lengthy,  detailed  cablegram; 
and  then,  with  a  smile,  at  another  he  had  received 
that  morning  and  in  which  Martin  Wedekind  offered 
to  stake  him  to  his  ticket  back  to  Spokane. 

"Come  straight  home,"  Martin's  cable  wound  up; 
"up  to  you  to  fight." 

"I'll  fight  all  right!"  Tom's  answer  flashed  back 
across  the  Atlantic  and  the  North  American  continent. 
"But  I  am  not  coming  back  just  now;"  and  it  was  just 
after  he  had  sent  Krauss  to  despatch  the  cable  that 


128  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Lord  Vyvyan  called  on  him,  immaculate  in  morning 
coat,  topper,  gray-cloth  spats,  and  gold-topped  malacca. 

"Looking  blue,  Graves,"  he  said.  "What's  the  mat 
ter?  Bad  developments  in  your  mining  litigation?" 

The  Westerner  showed  him  the  telegrams  without  a 
word. 

"Oh!     I'm  sorry!     What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

Tom's  jaws  set  like  a  steel  trap. 

"Fight!"  he  replied,  laconically. 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Vyvyan.  "Jolly  old  spirit! 
Jolly  old  Anglo-Saxon  quality!  Fight!  That's  the 
ticket,  old  dear !" 

Tom  gave  a  rough  laugh. 

"I  know.  Only  ...  at  times  I  wonder  if  I'll  be 
able  to  win." 

"What?"     The  Englishman  was  horrified. 

"Yep.  It  may  be  like — oh — like  tackling  this  Ger 
man  army,  with  their  Krupp  guns  and  their  trained 
millions,  with  our  two-by-four  American  army. 
Damned  stiff,  Vyvyan !  And  .  .  ." 

"Don't  you  dare  say  hopeless,  Graves !" 

"Sure.  I  won't.  To  please  you.  Only — "  sud 
denly  the  whole  despair  of  his  situation  surged  upon 
the  horse  wrangler  " — I've  nothing  left  to  fight  with. 
They  put  their  filthy,  legal  hands  on  everything  I 
possess  in  the  world,  even  the  money  I  have  in  Berlin, 
at  the  Deutsche  Bank.  I  don't  know  how  I  am  going 
to  pay  for  my  dinner  to-night,  how  I'm  going  to  meet 
my  rent.  Yes.  I've  nothing  left  to  fight  with  .  .  ." 

"Except  your  friends!"  cut  in  the  Englishman. 
"You've  got  me!" 

Tom  smiled. 

"Mighty  kind  of  you,  old  fellow.  I  appreciate  it, 
you  just  bet !  But — not  meaning  to  hurt  your  feelings 
none — how  can  you  .  .  ." 


WHAT  HAPPENED  BACK  HOME       129 

"Shut  up,  and  watch  my  smoke,  Graves!  What 
you  got  to  have  to  fight  that  Lehneke  person  is  the 
nervus  rerum,  money  in  other  words  .  .  ." 

"That's  no  news !" 

"And  I'm  going  to  supply  it.  I'm  going  to  be  the 
cute  little  bright-eyes  who's  going  to  plank  down  the 
war  chest !" 

"You?"  Again  Tom  laughed.  He  remembered 
that  the  other  had  frequently  told  him  how  "stony" 
he  was,  that  he  did  not  have  a  cent  in  the  world  and 
had  to  depend  on  his  brother,  the  Duke,  for  every 
thing.  "You — help  me?  Like  the  blind  helping  the 
lamer 

"Not  at  all.  I  have  the  makings,  as  you  Americans 
say." 

"Quit  your  bluffing.     I  know  you're  bust !" 

"I  am  not!" 

"You  told  me  yourself  that  .  .  ." 

"Old  aunt  of  mine  went  out.  Died,  I  mean.  Left 
me  oodles  of  cash." 

"Oh!"  Tom's  exclamation  was  frankly  incredu 
lous;  but  Vyvyan  slapped  a  check  book  on  the 
table. 

"Stop  arguing  and  doubting,"  he  said.  "I'll  write 
you  my  check  now.  As  much  as  you  want.  Enough 
to  fight  that  Lehneke  person  and  to  pay  for  all  your 
living  expenses  here.  Just  name  your  figure,"  and, 
when  Tom  did  not  reply,  only  laughed,  "how'll  five 
thousand  guineas  do  for  a  starter  ?" 

"Five  thousand  guineas?  That's  twenty-five  thou 
sand  dollars,  isn't  it?" 

"Rather  a  little  better,  old  cock.  More  if  you  want 
to.  It'll  be  a  pleasure." 

"Must  have  left  you  a  mint  o'  money,  that  aunt  of 
yours." 


130  [THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Right.  Splendid  old  dear,  wasn't  she?"  He 
waved  the  check  book.  "How  much?" 

But  Tom  shook  his  stubborn  red  head. 

"I  won't  accept  it,"  he  said. 

"Don't  be  a  silly  goat.  You  have  got  to  win  that 
case.  You  must  give  that  Dutchman  beans!  Come 
on.  Let  me  write  you  that  check,"  urged  Vyvyan. 

"I'll  think  it  over." 

"All  right,  then.  But  I  have  to  leave  town  for  a 
few  days,  and  so — here !"  He  made  out  his  check  for 
five  thousand  guineas  on  the  British  Linen  Bank  in 
London.  "It's  yours  to  use  if  you  want  to  while 
I'm  gone.  Cash  it  at  the  American  Express  Com 
pany's  local  office." 

"Wait,"  said  Tom,  "I  must  .  .  ." 

"Receipt  for  it?  Tommyrot!"  And  the  English 
man  was  out  of  the  room  and  the  flat. 

Tom  looked  at  the  check. 

"Mighty  convenient  aunt,  that  one  of  Vyvyan's,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "and  died  at  a  mighty  convenient 
time.  Well  .  .  ." 

He  heard  a  faint  noise  behind  him  and  turned. 
Krauss  was  standing  there.  His  eyes  were  glued  on 
the  slip  of  pink  paper  and,  acting  quite  instinctively, 
Tom  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"Sent  off  that  cable?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well?" 

"Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede  is  calling." 

"All  right.  Show  him  in,"  said  Tom;  and  a  mo- 
rnent  later  the  officer  came  into  the  room. 

"Has  Vyvyan  been  with  you  again?"  were  his  first 
words.  "I  just  met  him  on  the  stairs." 

"Yes,"  replied  Tom. 

"Do  you  like  that  drawling,  supercilious  Britisher?" 


WHAT  HAPPENED  BACK  HOME      131 

"Sure."  Then,  quickly,  suddenly,  Tom's  temper 
got  the  best  of  him.  "Look  here,"  he  added,  bellig 
erently,  "I  don't  think  it's  anybody's  damned  busi 
ness  with  whom  I  choose  to  herd,  see?" 

"That's  where  you  are  wrong,  Graves.  It  is  my 
business — as  your  friend !" 

"Tickled  to  death  you  call  yourself  my  friend. 
But — Vyvyan's  my  friend,  too,  and  .  .  ." 

"Let  me  explain!" 

"All  right,  all  right." 

"Vyvyan  is  an  Englishman." 

"What  of  that?     What's  wrong  with  Englishmen?" 

"Wrong?     Oh  ...     Nothing  .  .  ." 

The  man  was  silent.  He  was  very  quiet,  a  smile 
playing  on  his  handsome,  dark  features. 

Then,  with  a  terrible  suddenness,  a  change  came 
over  him.  His  eyes  flashed  fire.  His  flaring  nostrils 
dilated  and  quivered  like  those  of  a  thoroughbred  stal 
lion.  He  shot  out  his  long,  strong,  hairy  hands,  ges 
ticulating,  like  clutching  at  an  invisible,  hated  object. 
His  heart,  his  soul,  his  \vhole  being  seemed  to  acetify, 
and  all  his  well-trained,  well-subdued  emotions  danced 
away  in  a  mad  whirligig  of  passion. 

"I  tell  you  what's  wrong  with  them!"  he  cried,  his 
voice  peaking  up  to  a  high,  broken  screech.  ' 'These 
English — these  hypocritical,  supercilious  tradespeople 
— dieses  verdammte  Krameruolk !  .  .  .  Why,  Graves 
.  .  .  Wherever  you  go,  wherever  you  turn,  Africa, 
America,  Asia,  the  South  Seas,  you  find  them  squat 
ting  in  their  damned,  smug  self-content !  Their  flag 
is  everywhere,  their  ships,  their  drawling,  monocled 
fools  of  younger  sons,  their  prating  clergy,  their  con 
temptible  little,  scarlet-coated  army  .  .  .  They  are 
everywhere  .  .  ." 

"Sure,"  laughed  Tom,  "they  are  everywhere.     And 


132  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

don't  they  do  things  right  wherever  they  are?  Don't 
they  govern  well?  Don't  they  give  all  the  world,  in 
cluding  you  Dutchmen,  a  fair  chance  to  trade  on  equal 
terms  and  make  money  wherever  they  are?  Say,  I 
don't  know  much  about  politics,  but  just  judging  from 
what  I  know  of  horses,  I  reckon  you're  jealous  ..." 

"I,  a  German,  jealous  of  an  Englishman?" 

"You  bet  your  boots.  You're  as  jealous  as  hell. 
Otherwise  you  wouldn't  curse  them  as  you  are  doing 
now  and  the  next  moment  try  to  ape  them." 

"We're  not  aping  them!" 

"Sure  you  are.  I  got  eyes  to  see.  There  isn't  a 
man  in  this  town  who  can  afford  to  who  don't  turn 
up  his  breeches  when  it  rains  in  London.  Look  at 
the  names  of  your  swell  stores :  Old  England,  Prince 
of  Wales,  London  House — and  your  hotels :  the  Bris 
tol,  the  Windsor,  the  Westminster.  Why,  man,  I've 
seen  you  ride.  And  you  yourself  try  your  darnedest 
to  ride  like  a  Britisher !" 

"I  don't  have  to  try !  I  do  ride  like  them.  I  went 
to  the  London  horse  show,  at  Olympia,  and  .  .  ." 

Tom  burst  out  laughing. 

"Bit,  didn't  you?"  he  asked.  "Caught  you  with 
the  goods,  eh?  Been  to  London  and  learned  the 
trick!  Sure.  That's  just  what  I  am  saying  .  .  ." 

And  when  the  Baron  worked  himself  into  another 
storm  of  passion,  speaking  about  <fdieser  gemeine  Eng- 
lische  Pobel,"  Tom  cut  in  with  an  impatient: 

"Forget  it.  You  talk  like  an  old-fashioned  Cleve 
land  Democrat  on  the  stump.  What's  the  use?  You 
aren't  running  for  Congress,  and  I'm  not  Irish.  The 
days  when  you  had  to  tweak  the  lion's  tail  to  cop  a 
hatful  of  votes  are  gone.  We're  sane  these  days." 

"You  mean  to  say  that  you  Americans  are  satisfied 
to  sit  still  while  the  English  .  .  ." 


HAPPENED  BACK  HOME      133 

"Yep.  We're  satisfied  with  our  own  little  block  of 
real  estate — from  the  Lakes  to  the  Gulf,  from  the 
Atlantic  to  the  Pacific.  We  aren't  hogs.  We  got 
plenty  and  we  don't  envy  our  British  cousins." 

The  German  looked  at  Tom.  There  was  an  ex 
pression  of  utter  astonishment  on  his  aquiline  face. 
Then  he  laughed. 

"Ever  heard  of  Nietzsche?"  he  inquired. 

"No.     What  is  it?     Sounds  like  a  guy  sneezing." 

"Nietzsche  was  a  writer,"  the  German  went  on, 
"and  he  wrote  a  book  called  Zarathustra.  In  that 
book  there  is  a  passage  which  speaks  of  the  Ear,  big 
as  a  man,  on  a  slender  stalk,  and  against  the  stalks 
dangles  a  bloated  soul — shallow,  untrained,  helpless. 
And  that  soul,  my  friend,  is  the  Anglo-Saxon  world !" 

"Nutty!  Ab-so-lutely,  completely  hickory!"  was 
Tom's  simple  comment;  and  to  wind  up  the  argu~ 
ment,  he  added :  "Anyway,  Vyvyan  is  a  pal  o'  mine. 
Sit  down.  You  look  all  excited.  I'm  going  to  get 
you  a  drop  of  my  private  stock  Bourbon." 

He  walked  out  of  the  room.  On  the  threshold  he 
brushed  against  Krauss,  who  was  just  coming  in, 
and  he  did  not  notice  that  the  valet's  nimble  fingers 
had  rapidly  dipped  into  his  side  pocket  to  come  out 
with  a  slip  of  pink  paper. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   TIGHTENING   OF   THE    WEB 

"KRAUSS,"  said  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede  while  Tom 
was  out  of  the  room,  and  examining  Lord  Vyvyan's 
five-thousand-guinea  check,  "you  have  done  well.  I 
shall  speak  of  you  to  ...  You  know  .  .  ." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

The  officer  gave  him  back  the  check,  and  the  valet 
was  about  to  tear  it  up  when  the  other  stopped  him. 

"No,  no !     What  are  you  doing,  man  ?" 

"I  thought,  sir,  I  would  .  .  ." 

"Heavens,  no !  Put  it  back  in  Graves'  pocket.  Bet 
ter  still,  drop  it  on  the  floor — over  there — near  the 
little  taboret." 

"Zu  Bejehl,  Herr  Hauptmann!"  Krauss  clicked 
his  heels.  The  check  fluttered  on  the  rug. 

"That's  right.  No  use  having  Graves  suspect. 
He's  deliciously  simple,  our  American  friend.  But 
still  .  .  ." 

"Any  other  orders,  Herr  Hauptmann?" 

"No,  Krauss.     You  stay  with  Graves." 

"But — I  beg  your  pardon,  sir — if  he  has  lost  his 
money  .  .  ." 

"Not  exactly  lost  yet,  worse  luck!  Lehneke  is 
doing  splendidly.  So  are  the  others.  But  the  case 
is  not  yet  finally  decided." 

"But  .  .  ."  Krauss  cut  in  again,  anxiously;  and 
the  Baron  smiled  condescendingly. 

134 


THE  TIGHTENING  OF  THE  WEB      135 

"Krauss,"  he  asked,  "have  you  ever  known  our 
branch  of  the  service  to  make  a  mistake?" 

"No,  Herr  Hauptmann!" 

"You  have  worked  for  the  service  in  America, 
haven't  you?" 

"Yes,  sir.     Also  in  England,  and  in  France." 

"Very  well.  You  know  the  ropes.  You  know  that 
we  are  never  caught  napping.  We  are  armed  against 
all  contingencies.  The  army?  The  navy?  To  be 
sure.  They  will  do  their  share  when  the  day 
comes  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  whispered  Krauss,  "the  day— der  Tag!" 

"But,"  continued  the  other,  "we — our  branch — are 
the  real  people!  Our  names  are  unknown.  We  get 
little  thanks.  But  we  are  the  heart  of  Germany.  We 
have  the  will,  the  brains,  the  clear-cut,  cold  efficiency. 
Thus  in  the  case  of  this  delightfully  simple  young 
American.  He  will  .  .  .  Ah!"  as  Tom  came  back 
with  a  bottle  and  two  glasses,  "Thanks!  I  need  a 
drink." 

"Say  when,"  smiled  Tom,  pouring. 

"That's  plenty."  Von  Gotz-Wrede  raised  his  glass. 
"Fill  yours,  Graves." 

"Sure.     Never  refused  one  yet." 

"All  right.     And  now — let  me  give  you  a  toast !" 

"Fire  away !" 

The  Baron  threw  back  his  shoulders.  His  heels 
came  together  sharply.  He  spoke  in  a  ringing,  me 
tallic  voice : 

"I  drink  to  the  newest  officer  in  the  invincible  army 
of  our  All-Gracious  Sovereign  Wilhelm  the  Second, 
King  of  Prussia,  Emperor  of  the  Germans !  I  drink 
to  Lieutenant  Tom  Graves  of  the  Uhlans  of  the 
Guard!" 

Tom  put  down  his  glass. 


136  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Say!"  he  inquired.  "What's  biting  you?  What 
sort  o'  hop  have  you  been  hitting?  What's  the  big 
joke?" 

"Joke?     There's  no  joke!" 

The  Baron  walked  up  to  him  and  put  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 

"Tom,"  he  said  in  low,  earnest  accents,  "be  one  of 
us!  Put  on  the  blue  and  crimson  of  the  Uhlans  of 
the  Guard!  Ride  with  us!  Drink  with  us!  Tilt 
lances  with  us!  Laugh  with  us!  And — if  such  be 
God's  will— fight  with  us !" 

"But — but  .  .  ."     Tom  was  utterly  dumbfounded. 

"There  are  no  Buts.  We  like  you.  We  want  you. 
Come !  Be  our  comrade  in  arms !" 

"But" — stammered  Tom — "I  know  nothing  about 
the  army.  I  know  nothing  about  .  .  ." 

"You  can  ride,  man!  There's  no  better  horseman 
in  Germany  than  you.  Why,  how  can  you  say  no? 
You  are  young  and  healthy.  Can't  you  feel  the  glory 
of  it,  the  zest,  the  splendor  of  it?  A  soldier's  life? 
A  cavalryman!  A  dashing  Uhlan!" 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent.  He  tossed  down  the 
whiskey. 

Then  he  continued  in  an  epic  abandon,  and  deep 
down  in  his  heart  he  was  sincere: 

"The  army,  Tom!  The  cavalry!  The  right  life 
for  a  man  like  you,  a  man  of  the  plains,  a  man  on 
horseback!" 

From  the  distance,  drifting  up  from  the  Kurfiirst- 
endamm,  came  the  many  sounds  of  a  brigade  march 
ing  out  to  maneuver.  Brasses  and  fifes  and  drums 
brayed  and  shrieked  and  thumped  their  separate  notes, 
blending  with  the  hollow  tramp-tramp-tramp  of  drilled 
feet,  the  low,  dramatic  rumbling  of  the  guns,  the 


THE  TIGHTENING  OF  THE  WEB      137 

neighing  of  horses,  the  scraping  of  lance  butt  and 
sword  scabbard  on  saddles. 

The  Baron  threw  open  the  window. 

"The  army!"  he  went  on.  "God,  man,  can't  you 
feel  it?  Doesn't  it  give  you  a  thrill?  The  tightened 
reins!  The  call  of  the  trumpets!  The  thunder  of 
the  hoofs !  And — if  war  should  come — the  shock 
against  the  enemy's  phalanx,  the  curses  and  the  slash 
ings,  the  sudden  numbness  of  the  sword  arm  when 
the  steel  strikes  horse  or  rider!  Empty  saddles! 
Dust !  Blades  that  cross  and  slash  and  flicker !  And 
then  the  reeling  victor's  fist!  Then  the  waving  of 
the  enemy's  captured  pennant!  Oh,  the  triumph,  the 
glorious,  glorious  triumph  of  it!" 

He  paused.     He  gripped  Tom's  hands. 

"Come!  Be  one  of  us!"  he  added  in  a  tense 
whisper. 

The  young  Westerner  had  been  steadily  thinking, 
and  the  more  he  thought,  the  more  fascinating  seemed 
the  Baron's  proposal. 

It  was  not  only  the  glamour  of  the  army  which 
captured  his  imagination.  He  did  think  of  it.  As 
suredly.  For  he  was  young  and  eager. 

Also  there  was  his  dry  American  sense  of  humor. 
What  a  lark  it  would  be!  He,  Tom  Graves,  horse 
wrangler,  in  the  blue  and  crimson  of  Prussia's  crack 
Uhlan  regiment.  Gosh !  Martin  Wedekind  and  Alec 
Wynn  and  Newson  Garrett  and  all  the  other  fellows 
back  home  would  open  their  eyes  some! 

Herr  Leutnant  Tom  Graves! 

It  was  a  scream! 

Not  only  that.  For  there  was  Bertha.  She  was 
always  speaking  about  the  army,  the  officers,  the  gor 
geous  uniforms.  Well — he  studied  himself  compla- 


138  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

cently  in  the  mirror  which  hung  between  the  win 
dows — he'd  look  all  right  in  blue  and  crimson,  with 
gold  epaulettes,  and  a  trailing,  clanking,  crooked 
cavalry  saber. 

And  finally  it  would  solve  his  financial  difficulties. 
He  would  draw  regular  pay  and  save  enough  to  fight 
the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  litigation. 

So  there  was  no  reason  in  the  world  why  he  should 
say  no.  There  was  every  reason  why  he  should  say 
yes. 

And  he  did  say  yes ! 

"Fine  and  dandy!"  he  cried  enthusiastically.  "I 
am  with  you!  You  just  bet  your  boots  I  am  with 
you!" 

Then  he  had  a  sobering  thought. 

"Say,  Baron,"  he  went  on,  "are  you  sure  the  thing 
can  be  fixed?" 

"Of  course.  I  have  already  talked  to  Prince  Lud- 
wig  Karl.  We  are  anxious,  very  anxious,  to  have 
you  in  the  army !" 

And  Krauss,  who  was  standing  in  the  doorway, 
smiled.  He  said  to  himself  that  there  at  least  the 
Baron  had  spoken  the  unvarnished  truth. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

HERR   LEUTNANT   GRAVES 

AFTER  Baron  Horst  von  Gotz-Wrede  had  left  Tom 
found  Vyvyan's  check  where  Krauss  had  dropped  it. 
He  had  not  missed  it  before.  He  picked  it  up  and, 
deciding  that  he  would  not  need  it  now  his  immediate 
future  was  assured,  was  about  to  tear  it  up  when 
there  was  a  ring  at  the  front  door  bell. 

He  had  sent  the  valet  out  to  get  him  some  cigarettes, 
and  so  he  went  to  the  door  himself  to  admit  a  tele 
graph  messenger. 

He  tipped  him  and  opened  the  crinkly,  manila  en 
velope. 

"Gosh,"  he  said,  "it's  raining  cables  to-day!" 

He  read.     Then  he  gave  a  low  whistle. 

"Bully,  Alec !     Bully  for  you !" 

He  paused  and  looked  at  Lord  Vyvyan's  check. 

"Damned  lucky  I  didn't  tear  you  up,  you  little  rosy- 
cheeked  beauty.  You'll  come  in  mighty  handy!" 

For  in  a  lengthy  missive,  regardless  of  expense, 
lawyer  Wynn  had  cabled  that  through  a  sudden  change 
there  was  now  a  first-rate  chance  for  Tom  to  win 
the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  case,  but  that  he  must  re 
mit  at  once  a  stiff  sum  of  money,  say  five  thousand 
dollars.  Wynn  added  that  he  would  have  asked  Mar 
tin  Wedekind  for  the  amount,  but  the  latter  was  out 
of  town.  And  he  himself  was  strapped. 

So  Tom  decided  that  he  would  use  five  thousand 
dollars  of  Lord  Vyvyan's  check,  give  him  back  the 

139 


140  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

remaining  twenty  thousand,  and  repay  the  balance  just 
as  soon  as  the  case  was  settled. 

He  walked  down  the  stairs  and  whistled  for  a  taxi. 

"American  Express  Company!'*  he  said,  speaking 
in  German.  He  had  been  making  steady  and  con 
scientious  progress  in  the  mastering  of  the  language. 
"Mohren  Strasse  corner  of  Friedrich!  Rasch!" — and 
twenty  minutes  later  he  was  leaning  across  the  oak 
counter  of  the  local  branch  of  the  American  Express 
Company  and  explained  matters  to  the  little,  black- 
haired  Welshman  who  presided  over  the  cashier's  cage. 

"To  be  sure!"  said  the  Welshman.  "We  know 
Lord  Vyvyan.  We  always  honor  his  checks." 

"Always?"  asked  Tom,  intrigued.  "I  thought  his 
aunt  only  died  the  other  day." 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,"  replied  the  diplomatic,  suspi 
cious  cashier.  "I  know  nothing  about  his  Lordship's 
deceased  aunt.  But  the  check  is  all  right.  What? 
Yes,  sir,  I  shall  make  the  cable  transfer." 

He  figured  for  a  few  minutes,  asked  Tom  to  sign 
some  papers,  and  gave  him  the  rest  of  the  money  in 
German  bills. 

"Don't  mention  it,  sir.     Thank  you,  sir." 

Tom  dismissed  the  waiting  taxicab. 

"I'll  walk,"  he  said,  and  he  struck  out  at  a  good 
clip  down  the  Leipziger  Strasse,  across  the  Potsdamer 
Platz,  towards  the  Westend. 

The  Berlin  streets  lay  in  the  embrace  of  a  golden 
afternoon  of  late  autumn,  the  pale  sun  still  warm 
with  the  glory  of  harvest,  with  no  foretaste  of  win 
ter  tang  and  winter  sadness.  The  roofs  of  the  great, 
braggart  department  stores  took  on  beauty  for  the 
time-being,  glittering  in  every  shade  of  green  and 
blue  and  purple,  like  the  plumage  of  some  gigantic 


HERR  LEUTNANT  GRAVES     141 

peacock.  The  oak  and  beech  trees  bordering  the 
Spree  dipped  to  the  water  in  a  rustling,  shimmering 
rain  of  yellow  and  crimson  leaves;  the  spotless  win 
dows  of  the  many  shops  mirrored  the  cloudless  even 
ing  sky  with  a  myriad  rainbow  facets;  and  even  the 
ugly,  pompous  statues  that  rose  from  every  square, 
were  relieved  with  delicate  sprays  of  color  that  touched 
them  with  the  gentle,  mellowing  hands  of  romance. 

The  streets  were  filled  with  people.  Workmen  in 
brick-powdered  clothes  went  past,  smoking  cheap 
cigars,  dinner  pails  swinging  from  their  arms,  dis 
cussing  with  loud  voices  the  last  editorial  in  the  Vor- 
wdrts.  Stalwart  nurses  wheeled  their  charges  home 
from  the  Tiergarten.  Merchants  and  bankers  purred 
along  in  great  motor-cars  to  join  their  families  in  an 
open-air  supper  at  the  Zoological  Gardens.  Back  of 
the  tennis  court  to  the  left  of  the  Charlottenburg  de 
pot,  on  a  rough  plat  of  ground,  some  high  schoolboys 
were  playing  football,  not  cleverly,  but  with  a  certain 
lusty  Teutonic  zest,  filling  the  air  with  riotous  shouts. 

Tom  stepped  amongst  aristocrat  and  burgess  and 
student  like  a  conqueror.  His  thoughts  were  with 
Bertha — and  the  blue-and-crimson  uniform  of  the 
Uhlans.  For,  although  there  seemed  a  first-rate 
chance  now  of  his  winning  the  Yankee  Doodle  litiga 
tion,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  nevertheless  to  accept 
the  Baron's  proposal. 

It  would  be  such  bully  fun.  And — there  was 
Bertha ! 

He  grinned  good-naturedly  as  he  was  bumped  into 
by  two  arrogant  "One  Year  Volunteer"  privates  of  the 
Maikdfer  regiment  of  grenadiers. 

"Wait,  my  lads!"  he  thought.  "Just  wait  till  I 
get  my  uniform — my  little  monkey-jacket  and  my 


142  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

pointed  roasting  spit!  I'll  make  you  toe  the  mark. 
I'll  teach  you  how  to  bump  into  people!" 

And,  stopping  at  the  Gross  Berlin  American  Bar, 
where  a  morose,  nostalgic  ex-Coney  Island  barkeeper 
was  earning  his  living  by  introducing  the  gilded  youth 
of  Berlin  West  to  the  mysteries  and  delights  of  trans- 
Atlantic  mixed  drinks,  he  very  much  astonished  that 
worthy  by  waving  a  lofty  hand  when  the  man  ad 
dressed  him  as :  "Hullo,  Tom,  you  old  son-of-a-gun ! 
Have  one  on  the  house !"  and  by  asking  him,  in  mock 
dramatic  accents,  to  call  him  in  the  future:  "Herr 
Leutnant!" 

"Say!  Wot's  eatin'  o'  you?"  asked  McCaffrey,  the 
barkeeper,  to  receive  the  mystifying  reply,  pronounced 
in  the  horse  wrangler's  best  German: 

"Rechts  um!  Kehrt!  Prasentirt  das  Gewehr! 
Marsch!  Marsch!" 

"What  d'ye  think  ye  are  ?"  demanded  the  aggrieved 
McCaffrey.  "A  gol-dinged  Prooshan  lootinant?" 

"Right!"  snarled  Tom,  trying  his  best  to  copy 
Colonel  Heinrich  Wedekind's  martial  accents.  "Hoch 
der  Kaiser!" — and  he  swaggered  out  of  the  bar  while 
McCaffrey  looked  after  him  in  speechless  astonish 
ment. 

When  Tom  reached  his  flat,  he  found  it  filled  by 
a  jolly  company. 

Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede  was  there,  accompanied  by 
Colonel  Wedekind,  the  little  Hussar  whose  name  was 
Graf  von  Bissingen-Trotzow,  the  wizened  professor 
with  the  tiny,  red  ears,  whom  he  had  met  that  first 
night  at  the  Colonel's  house,  and  half-a-dozen  other 
officers  in  glittering  regimentals. 

They  greeted  him  with  jokes  and  laughter  and  en 
thusiasm  : 

"Guten  Abend,  Herr  Kamerad!" 


\ 


HERR  LEUTNANT  GRAVES     143 

"1st  fa  ganz  famos,  Hcrr  Kamerad!" 

"Grossartig,  Herr  Kamerad!" 

"Herr  Kamerad!" 

"Herr  Kamerad!" — and,  again : 

"Herr  Kamerad!" 

They  shook  his  hands.  They  congratulated  him, 
themselves,  the  army,  and  Germany,  until  the  Colonel 
enjoined  silence. 

"Gentlemen!     Gentlemen,  if  you  please!" 

He  turned  to  Tom  and  wished  him  luck  in  a  few 
well-chosen  words,  both  in  his  own  name  and  that 
of  the  regiment. 

"Thanks !"  smiled  the  Westerner.  "But  I'm  not  in 
the  regiment  yet.  I  guess  there  are  some  formalities." 

"Everything  is  arranged.  You  will  receive  your 
commission  to-night,  Mr.  Graves." 

"To-night?  Gee  whizz!  That's  darned  quick 
work!" 

"Isn't  it?"  replied  the  Colonel.  "But  Prince  Lud- 
wig  Karl  spoke  a  word  in  your  behalf.  To-night  you 
will  be  presented  to  His  All-Gracious  Majesty,  der 
Kriegsherr!  To  him  personally  you  will  give  the  oath 
of  fealty.  Hurry  into  your  dress  clothes,  my  dear  sir. 
The  audience  with  His  All-Gracious  Majesty  will  be 
in  an  hour !" 

Krauss  helped  Tom  change,  and  ten  minutes  later 
he  was  sitting  by  the  side  of  the  Colonel  in  the  lat- 
ter's  motor-car.  They  drove  through  the  Branden- 
burger  Thor,  where  the  sentinels  on  duty  jumped  out, 
presenting  arms.  The  Colonel  saluted.  Tom  waved 
a  negligent  hand. 

Up  to  the  Alte  Schloss  they  drove,  where  Tom  was 
taken  in  tow  by  a  chamberlain  in  silken,  black  knee- 
breeches,  who  led  him  through  a  long  suite  of  rooms, 
all  furnished  rather  dingily  in  the  style  of  two  gen- 


144  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

erations  ago,  and  into  an  antechamber  where  he  was 
received  by  Prince  Ludwig  Karl. 

The  latter  said  something  about:  "Charmirt,  mein 
Herr,  ganz  charmirt!"  and  preceded  Tom  into  a  large, 
octagonal  salon. 

Near  the  balconied  window,  sitting  stiffly  erect  on 
a  hard  chair,  was  a  short,  oldish  man  in  the  full 
uniform  of  a  field  marshal,  his  chest  blazing  with 
German  and  foreign  decorations. 

"His  Majesty!"  mumbled  Prince  Ludwig  Karl,  and 
Tom  looked  curiously  at  the  Prussian  War  Lord. 

He  beheld  a  lean,  yellow,  dissatisfied,  rather  morose 
face,  with  large  ears,  and  sagging  lips  brushed  by  an 
upsweep  of  gray,  martial  mustache.  With  his  blood 
shot,  roving  eyes,  his  haggard  cheeks,  his  high,  wrin 
kled  forehead,  he  seemed  to  Tom  like  an  old,  weary 
bloodhound. 

The  ceremony  itself  took  little  time.  Tom  bowed 
and  repeating  word  for  word  the  oath  of  fealty,  by 
the  terms  of  which,  only  half  knowing  what  he  was 
saying,  he  bound  himself  to  serve  His  All-Gracious 
Majesty  in  peace  and  war,  and  to  obey  all  orders, 
then  shook  the  Emperor's  limp,  hairy  hand,  and  was 
ushered  out  of  the  salon  and  the  palace. 

The  Colonel  was  waiting  outside. 

"To-morrow  I'll  take  you  to  my  tailor  to  have  you 
measured  for  your  uniform,  Lieutenant  Graves/'  he 
said. 

And  it  was  thus  that,  the  next  day,  to  Bertha's  bel 
ligerent  question  of  what  he  was  going  to  do  about  it, 
he  replied  that  he  was  going  to  get  himself  the  monkey- 
jacket  and  the  bit  of  steel. 

In  fact,  both  had  already  been  ordered  from  "Paul 
Hoffman  &  Cie,  Hoflieferanten,  Purveyors  to  His 
Majesty  the  King  of  Spain  and  His  Majesty  the  King 


HERR  LEUTNANT  GRAVES     145 

of  Sweden,  Militareffektenlieferanten"  .  .  .  The  lat 
ter  a  jaw-breaking  noun  which  even  Tom,  in  spite  of 
his  rapidly  improving  German,  could  not  translate  as 
"army  tailors"  without  the  help  of  the  dictionary. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

TRUEX 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  Alec  Wynn 
had  sent  his  first,  rather  hopeless,  cable  to  Tom — the 
cable  which  within  forty-eight  hours  of  its  arrival  in 
Berlin  was  destined  to  precipitate  the  young  Westerner 
head  over  heels  into  the  iron  web  of  the  German  army 
— the  lawyer  entered  his  office  in  the  Mohawk  Block 
to  find  there  waiting  for  him  a  half-breed  French 
Canadian  by  the  name  of  Baptiste  Lamoureux,  whom 
he  knew,  unfavorably,  from  former  occasions.  He 
had  defended  him  more  than  once  in  the  local  courts 
for  minor  offenses  as  well  as  for  a  couple  of  shooting 
scrapes,  and  so  Wynn's  greeting  was  appropriate: 

"Hello,  Batis' !  Going  to  croak  somebody  and  com 
ing  to  me  in  advance  to  arrange  for  the  proper  alibi  ?" 

The  Canadian  laughed  with  a  flash  of  even,  white 
teeth. 

"No,  M'sieu!"  he  replied.  "M'sieu,  I  am  a  frien' 
of  yours !" 

"Purely  disinterested,  I  reckon."  By  birth  the  law 
yer  was  a  Southerner  and  all  the  years  spent  in  the 
Northwest  had  not  been  sufficient  to  make  him  drop  his 
North  Carolinian  phraseology. 

"Alas,  no,  M'sieu !  Disinterested?  Ah!  One  must 
eat  an'  sleep,  Hein?" 

"Surely  —  and  get  one's  nose  full  on  occasion. 
Batis',  I  appreciate  your  charming  personality,  but  I 

146 


TRUEX  147 

am  a  busy  man.  Close  the  door  on  the  outside.  I 
have  no  time  for  either  social  intercourse  or  the  swap 
ping  of  philosophical  observations/' 

"Sure  Mike.  But — ah" — Lamoureux  winked  rap 
idly  one  little  beady  black  eye — "you  would  have  time 
if  I  whisper  to  you  one,  one  tiny  leetle  word  as  to 
M'sieu  'Old  Man'  Truex.  That  no  so,  M'sieu?" 

The  lawyer  dropped  his  forensic  calm.  He  jumped 
up  and  took  the  other  by  the  shoulder. 

"Come  through !     What  is  it  ?" 

"The  information  costs  money.  I  tol'  you,  M'sieu, 
un  pawif  type  comme  nwi  ...  I  must  eat  an'  sleep 
an',  as  you  say,  occasionally  get  my  nostrils  full  of 
whiskey  bland" 

"How  much,  you  damned  rascal  ?" 

"M'sieu!  M'sieu!"  exclaimed  the  other.  "You 
must  not  misunderstand  me.  It  is  not  for  me,  the 
money.  I — I  am  your  frien'.  Also  am  I  a  frien'  of 
M'sieu  Graves.  Once  he  help'  me  an'  I  do  not  for- 
get." 

"Well?  Who  wants  the  money  then?  Speak  out, 
man!" 

Followed  a  long,  tense,  whispered  conversation,  the 
lawyer  making  objection  after  objection,  asking  ques 
tion  after  question,  all  satisfactorily  answered  by  the 
Canadian. 

Finally  Wynn  inclined  his  head.  The  man's  story 
seemed  very  convincing.  If  it  was  the  truth,  Tom 
was  sure  to  win  the  case. 

"You  are  speaking  the  truth,  Lamoureux?"  he 
asked,  glaring  at  the  other  with  his  piercing  blue  eyes. 

"Yes,  yes,  M'sieu !     I  swear  it  by  the  dear  Virgin !" 

"All  right.     Wait." 

Came  a  frantic  telephone  call  to  Martin 
whom  he  had  left  only  an  hour  earlier. 


i48  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Martin  has  gone  out  of  town,"  Mrs.  Wedekind  said 
across  the  wires. 

"Where  to  ?     I  must  communicate  with  him !" 

"I  am  sorry.  He  has  taken  the  motor  and  his  fish 
ing-tackle — and  you  know  he  keeps  his  trout  streams 
a  dead  secret  .  .  ." 

"That's  so.  No  reaching  him,  I  reckon.  All  right. 
Thank  you  just  the  same,  Mrs.  Wedekind/' 

And  then  the  second  cable  to  Tom  Graves,  who 
acknowledged  it,  before  the  evening  was  out,  by  tele 
graphing  five  thousand  dollars  through  the  American 
Express  Company  in  Berlin  to  the  lawyer's  account 
with  the  Merchants'  and  Traders'  Bank. 

"Quick  work!"  said  Wynn,  cashed  the  money, 
rushed  to  the  Spokane  &  Northern  Railrpad  Depot  and 
took  the  next  train  for  Nelson,  B.  C.,  accompanied  by 
Lamoureux. 

Back  in  Berlin,  Tom  was  very  busy  considering  the 
duties  and  pleasures  of  his  new  situation  in  life. 

"You'll  catch  up  to  all  that  drill  stuff  quick  enough," 
Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede  told  him.  "Saber  and  lance 
you'll  learn  in  no  time  .  .  ." 

"Shooting  and  riding  I  know.  I'm  a  pippin  at  it  if 
I  say  it  myself." 

"Rather.  And  as  to  the  rest,  you'll  learn  the  ropes 
very  quickly.  You'll  make  a  first-rate  cavalryman." 
He  slapped  Tom  on  the  shoulder. 

"Tickled  to  death  you  think  so." 

"I  know  it.  Of  course,"  the  German  continued, 
lighting  a  cigar,  "there's  the  social  life  to  be  consid 
ered.  You  know  the  military  keeps  itself  aloof  from 
the  civilians.  We  have  our  own  clique,  our  own  in 
terests,  our  own  etiquette,  our  own  catchwords  even." 

"Sure.     I  know." 

"But  perhaps  you  don't  know  that  there  is  a  great 


TRUEX  149 

deal  of  difference  between  the  Guard  regiments  and 
those  of  the  Line.  Our  regiment  belongs  to  the 
Guard." 

"Well?" 

"An  officer  in  a  Line  regiment  can  live  on  his  pay. 
We  of  the  Guard  cannot.  We  have  all  sorts  of  un 
written  laws,  unwritten  obligations,  unwritten  duties. 
We  pay  for  the  regimental  band.  We  all  have  to  keep 
a  string  of  horses.  We  entertain  a  frightful  lot.  All 
very  expensive,  very  expensive.  In  fact — at  all  events 
in  the  Uhlans — a  chap  must  have  at  the  very  least  sixty 
thousand  marks  a  year  private  income — that's  fifteen 
thousand  dollars  in  your  money,  Graves." 

"That's  all  right,  sonny,"  said  Tom. 

The  German  looked  up,  studying  the  other's  open, 
boyish  features  intently. 

All  morning  he  had  spent  at  a  certain  office  in  the 
Tauentzien  Strasse  near  Jensen's  department  store, 
which  was  labeled  innocuously  "Imperial  German 
Ethnological  Survey  Bureau,"  where  large  steel  filing 
>cabinets  were  locked  nightly  behind  double  steel  doors, 
and  where  men  seldom  spoke  above  a  whisper. 

There  he  had  studied  certain  reports,  two  of  which 
had  come  by  cable  from  America,  the  third  by  tele 
graph  from  England,  and  all  in  cipher  code. 

The  first  cable  was  signed  by  Ethnological  Survey 
Operator  Lawrence  Walsh,  alias  Grant  Stickley,  alias 
Jacques  Mersereau,  drawing  his  pay  as  simply  Number 
789,  a  former  resident  of  Berlin,  Ontario,  and  at  pres 
ent  stationed  at  Fernie,  B.  C.  According  to  him  the 
case  of  Eberhardt  Lehneke  versus  Tom  Graves,  while 
not  yet  completely  settled,  was  nearly  certain  to  be 
decided  in  the  former's  favor.  He  added  that  Mr. 
Alec  Wynn,  counsel  for  the  defense,  seemed  to  con 
sider  the  case  hopeless  since  he  had  left  town,  accom- 


150  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

panied  by  a  French-Canadian  Indian  guide  by  the 
name  of  Baptiste  Lamoureux,  to  hunt  mountain  sheep 
in  the  vicinity  of  Nelson,  B.  C. 

The  second  cable,  by  the  same  Lawrence  Walsh,  had 
arrived  that  morning  and  was  a  trifle  less  enthusiastic. 
It  said  that  Mr.  Alec  Wynn  had  suddenly  returned 
from  British  Columbia  and,  immediately  upon  his  re 
turn,  had  had  a  long  conversation  with  Mr.  Jonathan 
Small,  Prosecuting  Attorney  of  Spokane  County. 
Mr.  Wynn  had  seemed  to  be  in  very  good  humor  after 
he  had  left  the  Prosecuting  Attorney's  office,  but  al 
though  he,  Walsh,  Number  789,  had  gone  through  the 
lawyer's  files,  correspondence,  desk,  trunks,  and  clothes 
with  minutest  care,  he  had  not  been  able  to  find  out 
anything  whatsoever.  Nor  had  Mr.  Wynn  made  any 
attempt  to  lift  the  injunction  on  Mr.  Graves'  prop 
erty.  It  was  the  respectful  opinion  of  Number  789 
that  Mr.  Wynn  was  practicing  that  great  American 
game  called  Bluff. 

The  third  message,  the  telegram  from  London,  had 
been  sent  by  a  certain  Kurt  Blumenthal,  son  of  Israel 
Blumenthal,  the  great  Hamburg  banker,  and  clerk, 
thanks  to  the  influence  of  his  father,  in  the  London 
office  of  the  British  Linen  Bank.  Modestly  calling 
himself  Number  554,  he  reported  that  the  check  for 
five  thousand  guineas  drawn  by  Lord  Vyvyan  in  favor 
of  Mr.  Tom  Graves,  about  which  he  had  been  re 
quested  to  give  information,  had  not  been  cashed  or 
presented  for  payment.  Neither  in  the  London  office 
of  the  bank  nor  in  any  of  the  provincial  branches. 

Here,  then,  was^  the  situation,  and  it  was  a  little 
puzzling : 

Mr.  Wynn,  in  Spokane,  seemed  of  cheerful  mien, 
but  had  brought  no  action  to  annul  the  injunction. 
Tom  was  evidently  not  hard  up  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 


TRUEX  151 

he  had  not  yet  cashed  Lord  Vyvyan's  check,  for  Baron 
von  Gotz-Wrede  did  not  know  that  the  check,  cashed 
in  the  Berlin  office  of  the  American  Express  Company, 
had  passed  through  intricate  and  peculiar  channels. 
A  fair-haired,  innocent-looking  Englishman  had  erased 
its  entry  in  the  ledger  of  the  Express  Company,  had 
forwarded  it  to  another  fair-haired,  innocent-looking 
Englishman  in  the  London  British  Linen  Bank  who, 
seeing  a  minute  B.  E.  D.  written  in  the  upper  left  hand 
corner,  had  taken  it  direct  to  a  house  in  Whitehall 
Street.  There  a  patriarchal,  white-haired,  blue-eyed 
gentleman  had  paid  it  in  crinkling  Bank  of  England 
notes  and  had  torn  it  into  shreds,  afterwards  carefully 
burning  them  to  flaky  ashes. 

Yes.  The  thing  puzzled  the  Baron.  On  the  one 
hand  there  was  the  report  of  Number  789,  on  the 
other  that  of  Number  554. 

Thirdly,  there  was  Tom's  cheerful  smile,  his  cheer 
ful  admission,  when  told  that  he  had  to  have  a  large 
private  income,  that  he  knew  it. 

Thus  the  Baron  decided  to  make  assurance  doubly 
sure.  It  might  mean  money  thrown  out  of  the  win 
dow.  But  the  "Imperial  German  Ethnological  Survey 
Bureau"  resembled  the  office  in  Whitehall  Street  in  so 
far  that  it  kept  no  record  of  monies  received  or  spent. 

"Tcm,"  he  said,  "are  you  sure  you're  all  right?  I 
mean — about  that  private  income  ?" 

"Don't  you  bother,"  laughed  the  Westerner,  who 
had  complete  confidence  in  Alec  Wynn  and  who  knew 
that  the  latter  would  not  have  asked  him  to  cable  the 
money  unless  he  had  a  first-rate  chance  of  winning 
the  litigation.  "I'm  as  right  as  rain." 

"You  are — positive?" 

"Yep." 

"But — "  the  German  was  momentarily  nonplussed. 


152  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

He  wondered  if  the  "deliciously  simple"  American 
was  less  innocent  than  he  seemed.  He  decided  to  put 
one  of  his  cards  on  the  table,  face  up.  "I  say,"  he 
went  on,  "I  read  something  in  the  papers  about  a  liti 
gation  against  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  .  .  ." 

"Sure.  That's  right.  But  I  guess  I'll  win  it  with 
flying  colors." 

"I  hope  you  will.  In  the  meantime  .  .  .  well  .  .  . 
I  am  still  willing  to  buy  the  mine." 

"Not  on  your  life,"  replied  the  horse  wrangler. 
"If  my  title  to  the  Yankee  Doodle  is  punk  and  I  lose 
the  case,  I'd  hate  like  the  devil  to  see  you  stuck.  And 
if  my  title's  all  right  I  don't  want  to  sell.  That's 
pretty  darned  square  logic,  isn't  it?" 

And  the  Baron  had  to  admit  that  it  was. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

ALL  DRESSED  UP 

TOM  GRAVES  wanted  to  surprise  Bertha  Wedekind 
with  his  new  rank  and  station,  and  so  he  had  sworn 
the  Colonel,  the  Baron,  and  his  other  friends  amongst 
the  officers  of  Bertha's  acquaintance  to  secrecy. 

Monday  morning,  shortly  after  ten,  Paul  Hoffmann 
&  Cie,  Militareffektenlieferanten,  delivered  his  uniform 
and  full  accouterments,  and  an  hour  later  he  was  on 
the  street  in  all  his  pristine,  blue-and-crimson  glory 
and,  if  the  truth  be  told,  feeling  not  the  slightest  bit 
self-conscious.  He  had  been  excused  from  active  duty 
for  the  rest  of  the  week  and  was  entirely  his  own 
master. 

In  front  of  the  house  he  met  Kurt  Meissner,  the 
irascible  banker  who  had  the  apartment  below.  The 
man  stared,  open-eyed,  open-mouthed.  Tom  grinned, 
saluted,  and  went  on  his  way. 

He  was  in  splendid  humor.  The  tip  of  his  sword 
scabbard  bumped  behind  him  on  the  granite  pavement. 
He  liked  the  sound  of  it.  He  felt  like  on  that  morn 
ing  before  he  had  won  the  broncho  busting  medal  at 
the  Pendleton  roundup:  quite  sure  of  himself,  but 
without  the  least  conceit. 

He  turned  down  the  Kurfurstendamm,  and  his  first 
stop  was  at  the  "Gross  Berlin  American  Bar." 

Even  at  that  early  hour  the  place  was  fairly  well 

153 


154  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

filled.  There  were  a  few  sporting  German  men-about- 
town  talking  to  each  other  in  English,  very  proud  of 
their  London  cut  tweeds,  and  trying  not  to  make  wry 
faces  as  the  American  cocktails  trickled  down  their 
beer-trained  throats.  There  was  furthermore  a  sprin 
kling  of  Americans  and  Englishmen;  most  of  them 
boxing  and  roller  skates  instructors,  and  jockeys  and 
trainers  attached  to  the  great  racing  establishments  of 
such  German  plutocrats  as  Baron  von  Oppenheim, 
Prince  Salm-Horstmar,  and  Freiherr  von  Matuschka- 
Greiffenklau,  the  Silesian  "coal  baron/' 

All  the  habitues  of  the  bar  knew  Tom  Graves.  He 
had  bought  them  many  a  drink  since  he  had  come  to 
Berlin,  had  helped  out  more  than  one  of  the  Anglo- 
American  contingent  with  loans  of  money.  But  at 
first  none  there  recognized  him. 

Finally  it  dawned  upon  Pat  McCaffrey  that  the 
dapper  young  Uhlan  of  the  Guard  was  his  country 
man  from  the  Far  West. 

He  leaned  across  the  polished  bar,  breaking  a  couple 
of  whiskey  glasses  in  his  excitement. 

"For  the  love  o'  Moses,  King  o'  the  Jews !"  he  cried. 
"Go  on  home,  Tom,  an'  take  'em  off !" 

"Take  what  off?" 

"Them  duds,  man !     That  there  uniform  o'  yourn !" 

"I  can't,"  answered  Tom,  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 
"It's  against  the  military  regulations  to  wear  civilian 
dress  without  special  permit." 

"Tom!  Tom,  me  boy!"  implored  the  barkeeper, 
while  the  Americans  and  Englishmen  crowded  round, 
laughing,  joking,  and  while  the  Germans,  catching 
on  to  what  was  the  matter,  made  audible  remarks 
about  "verfluchte  Yankee  Frechheit — cursed  Yankee 
insolence." 


ALL  DRESSED  UP  155 

"Tom !"  went  on  McCaffrey,  "don't  ye  know  there's 
a  German  law  ag'in  the  wearin'  o'  them  duds  without 
ye  be  entitled  to  it?  Upon  me  sowl,  they'll  pinch  ye 
sure  an*  send  you  to  jug!  An'  believe  me — "  he  spoke 
from  melancholy  experience,  "them  Prooshan  jails  is 
hell!" 

Tom  laughed. 

"Mac,"  he  said,  "keep  your  shirt  on.     I  am  ,-^sSr. 

"Look  here!"  cut  in  a  snarling,  guttural  German- 
American  voice. 

Tom  turned.  The  speaker  was  Neumann,  the 
young  German  bank  clerk  from  New  York,  whom 
he  had  thrashed  aboard  the  Augsburg. 

"Yes?"  inquired  Tom  gently. 

"You  have  no  right  to  that  uniform,  you  damned 
Yankee!  It's  an  outrage!"  He  turned  to  his  com 
patriots.  "I  appeal  to  you,  gentlemen.  Es  ist  eine 
gemeine  Schande!"  Once  more  he  addressed  Tom, 
shouting  at  the  top  of  his  lungs.  "You'll  go  to  jail 
for  that,  you  impostor!  You  have  no  right  to  wear 
the  King's  Coat !" 

"Oh,  haven't  I?"  rejoined  Tom,  smiling.  "Well, 
well,  well !" 

He  took  Neumann's  ear  between  the  fingers  of  his 
left  hand,  pinching  cruelly,  while  with  his  right  he 
slipped  a  paper  from  the  top  buttons  of  his  tunic. 

"Look  at  that,  my  lad !"  he  went  on,  still  pinching, 
and,  unfolding  the  paper,  he  showed  it  to  be  an  army 
commission  signed  by  the  Emperor  and  countersigned 
by  General  von  Bissingen,  Plat  Commandant  of  the 

erlin  garrison. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Graves!"  stuttered 
Neumann. 

"Call  me  Herr  Leutnant!"  thundered  the  Westerner, 


156  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

giving  the  clerk's  ear  a  final,  twisting  pinch,  and  the 
other  complied  and  slunk  out  of  the  room. 

By  this  time  McCaffrey  was  arranging  bottles  and 
glasses  on  the  bar. 

"This  one's  on  the  house,"  he  cried.  "What's  your 
tipple,  Tom,  me  boy?" 

But  Tom  shook  his  head. 

"Got  to  keep  as  sober  as  a  judge  this  morning,  Mac  I 
Thanks  just  the  same !" 

"What's  the  matter?     Callin'  on  yer  best  girl?" 

"You  said  it!"  came  Tom's  reply,  and  he  walked 
out  to  the  street. 

He  hailed  a  taxicab,  drove  up  to  Colonel  Wede- 
kind's  apartment,  and  gave  his  card  to  the  Pomeranian 
Bursche. 

"Ach  du  Ueber  Hcrr  Jesus!"  was  all  that  honest 
peasant  could  utter,  but  the  sight  of  the  respected  uni 
form  galvanized  him  into  action  and  he  took  Tom's 
card. 

A  moment  later,  he  bowed  over  the  hand  of  Bertha. 

She,  too,  was  speechless. 

But  Tom  had  learned  his  experience  in  the  "Gross 
Berlin  American  Bar."  Instead  of  speaking  he  put 
his  army  commission  on  the  table  and  asked  the  young 
girl  to  read. 

She  read,  and  looked  up. 

"Why,  Tom  dear!" 

The  latter  grinned. 

"See?"  he  said,  triumphantly,  "I  got  me  my  little 
monkey-jacket.  And  here's  my  roasting  spit!"  drawr- 
ing  his  saber  and  making  passes  at  an  imaginary 
enemy. 

The  girl  laughed  delightedly. 

"Tom !     Tom !"  she  cried.     "I  am  so  proud  of  you. 


ALL  DRESSED  UP  157 

And  I'm  proud  of  Germany  for  having  chosen 
you  .  .  ." 

"Bully!  Thanks  for  the  compliments.  Sounds 
like  the  chairman  of  the  Democratic  Party  introducing 
me  to  a  gathering  of  hicks.  And  now,  just  to  finish 
up  in  style,  aren't  you  proud  of  Spokane,  of  America, 
for  having  given  birth  to  as  dashing  a  warrior  as  me  ? 
Say!"  he  went  on,  very  seriously,  "aren't  you  proud 
of  America — just  the  least  little  bit?" 

<$SFo.  You're  a  German  now,  too,  Tom.  As  I 
am!" 

"Get  off,  kid !  You're  not  German,  and  neither  am 
I!  Not  on  your  life!  We're  both  Americans! 
Three  cheers!"  he  shouted,  "three  cheers  for  the 
American  Eagle!  May  he  scream  for  all  time  to 
come  .  .  ." 

"Don't  let  the  Eagle  scream  so  loud,"  came  a  voice 
from  the  door. 

The  Colonel's  mother  had  come  into  the  room.  She 
studied  Tom  with  her  snapping  old  eyes,  and  her  voice 
was  threaded  with  delicate  malice. 

"So  you  did  not  take  my  advice  ?" 

"What  advice?"  asked  Bertha. 

"Nothing  for  frivolous  young  ears,"  replied  her 
grandmother,  and  then  to  Tom,  in  an  undertone: 
"Well,  since  you  refused  to  leave  Germany  when  I 
told  you,  since  you  insisted  on  staying  here,  you  did 
the  right  thing.  It  is  better  to  hunt  with  the  hounds 
than  to  run  with  the  hares." 

"What — what  d'you  mean?"  stammered  Tom. 

"That !"  replied  Mrs.  Wedekind,  touching  his  epau 
lettes,  "and  that!"  pointing  at  his  sword.  "In  Ger 
many  you  must  be  a  soldier — you  must  belong  to  the 
ruling  caste — the  hounds  who  hunt!  Only — don't 


158          JHE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

forget  that  the  American  Eagle  is  no  more  in  your 
life.  From  now  on  it  is  the  German  Eagle,  young 
man !  You  are  a  German !" 

"I  am  not !"  stoutly  declared  Tom,  but  he  discovered 
before  the  month  was  out  that  Mrs.  Wedekind  had 
spoken  the  truth. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

DER    DEUTSCHE 

TOWARDS  the  end  of  the  week  Lord  Vyvyan  re 
turned  to  Berlin  and  called  on  Tom.  He  was  not  a 
bit  surprised  to  see  the  latter  in  a  German  uniform — 
which  rather  disappointed  the  horse  wrangler. 

"Papers  spoke  of  it,"  the  Englishman  said  casually, 
dropping  into  a  chair.  "The  Daily  Mirror  brought 
your  picture,  flanked  by  that  of  the  latest  Pimlico  wife 
beater  and  the  most  recent  Celtic  poet.  Must  have 
snapped  you  when  you  weren't  looking — and  labeled 
you :  'Only  American  cowboy  who  goes  to  sleep  to 
the  lullaby  of  Hoch  der  Kaiser!' " 

"I  don't,"  laughed  Tom. 

"Don't  you  ?"  Vyvyan  drawled  the  words.  He  was 
a  little  stiff,  a  little  reserved,  in  spite  of  his  jocularity, 
and  Tom  was  conscious  of  a  disagreeable  feeling  that 
was  almost  sharp  mental  pain.  Too,  there  was  a  cer 
tain  mockery  in  the  way  in  which  the  Englishman 
studied  his  uniform  through  the  concave  lense  of  his 
monocle. 

"Well,  there  you  are,  old  cock.  All  in  purple  and 
fine  linen  like  a  regular  bally  hero,"  went  on  Vyvyan 
as  stiffly  as  before.  "How's  your  litigation  coming 
on?" 

Tom  welcomed  the  turn  in  the  conversation.  So 
he  explained  what  had  happened,  how  he  had  used 
five  thousand  dollars  to  comply  with  Alec  Wynn's 

159 


160  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

cabled  demand,  and  drew  the  remaining  sum  from  his 
pocketbook. 

Vyvyan  waved  the  money  aside. 

"You'll  need  all  the  dough  you  can  lay  your  hands 
on,"  he  said.  "Life  in  the  Uhlans  will  cost  you  a 
pretty  bloomin'  penny/' 

"Yes.     That's  what  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede  says/' 

"Well,  keep  the  money.     I  don't  need  it." 

Tom  looked  up.  Less  and  less  he  liked  the  tone 
and  manner  of  the  Englishman,  but  he  said  to  him 
self  that  he  must  be  mistaken.  There  was  no  reason 
in  the  world  why  his  friend  should  bear  him  any  ill 
will. 

So  he  replied  very  heartily: 

"Thanks.  I'd  be  very  glad  to  keep  the  money  for 
a  short  time.  It'll  help  me  a  whole  lot." 

"Keep  it  just  as  long  as  you  care  to." 

The  Englishman  rose. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  the  Westerner;  "there's  just 
one  little  condition." 

"Oh?"  came  the  Britannic  exclamation. 

"  'Oh/  is  correct !  I  expect  to  win  that  suit,  and 
if  I  do  I  am  going  to  give  you  a  block  of  stock  in  the 
mine." 

"Heavens,  no!" 

"It's  only  fair,  Vyvyan." 

"No,  no,  no!  I  have  very  special  reasons  why  I 
do  not  want  an  interest  in  the  Yankee  Doodle."  He 
looked  at  Tom.  Quite  suddenly  his  reserve  melted. 
He  smiled;  and,  under  his  breath,  he  added:  "No! 
It  wouldn't  be  play  in'  the  game." 

"I  won't  take  no  for  an  answer,"  said  Tom,  and 
he  was  so  stubbornly  insistent  that  finally  Vyvyan, 
though  still  protesting,  signified  his  acceptance. 

They  dined  together  at  the  "Auster-Meyer"  restau- 


DER  DEUTSCHE  161 

rant  and  it  was  over  coffee  and  Grand  Marnier  that 
the  Englishman  thawed  completely  and,  with  British 
outspokenness,  gave  Ins  friend  his  reasons  why  at 
first  he  had  been  so  stiff  and  reserved. 

"It's  that  uniform  of  yours,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
like  it  on  an  American." 

"Shucks!     It's  only  a  lark !" 

"A  lark?  Nothing  is  a  lark  in  Germany.  Every 
thing  here  is  done  for  a  reason,  a  cause,  an  ulterior, 
well-thought-out  end!"  Vyvyan  was  very  serious. 
"Remember,  Tom,  a  few  weeks  ago  when  I  said  I 
wanted  to  take  you  into  my  confidence?" 

"Yes.  Sure  I  remember."  Impulsively  he  took  the 
other's  hand.  "Say,  old  man,  if  I  can  help  you  .  .  . 
Any  time  .  .  ." 

Vyvyan  was  silent.  It  was  evident  that  he  was 
going  through  a  mental  struggle.  Finally  he  shook 
his  head,  and,  as  in  Tom's  apartment,  he  said  half  to 
himself:  "No!  It  wouldn't  be  playin'  the  game. 
It's  what  a  German  would  do.  I  can't.  I  fancy  I'm 
a  fool." 

"Don't  be  so  mysterious,"  said  Tom. 

The  Englishman  refilled  his  liqueur  glass. 

"Tom,"  he  went  on  musingly,  "that  time,  a  few 
weeks  ago,  when  I  wanted  to  take  you  into  my  con 
fidence  there  was  that  old  barrier — built  by  King 
George  and  his  silly  ass  ministry  over  a  hundred  years 
ago,  during  the  American  Revolution.  Now  there's 
another  barrier  between  you  and  me." 

"What?"     Tom  was  utterly  surprised. 

"Yes.  Another  barrier.  The  uniform  you  are 
wearing." 

"That  bit  of  blue-and-red  cloth  won't  make  any 
difference  to  you  and  me.  How  the  devil  can  it?" 

Vyvyan  smiled. 


1 62  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"We'll  see.  But — will  you  promise  me  one  thing:, 
Tom?" 

"You  bet — if  it  helps  you  !" 

"It's  just  this.  Don't  ever  sell  the  Yankee  Doodle 
Glory  to  a  German!" 

"Well — I  haven't  won  my  case  yet." 

"But — s'pose  you  do?" 

"All  right,  Vyvyan.  I  promise."  He  leaned  across 
the  table.  "Say — it's  you  who  sent  me  that  anony 
mous  telephone  message  the  night  of  my  arrival  in 
Berlin,  eh?" 

"Maybe." 

Vyvyan  called  the  wraiter,  paid,  and  he  and  Tom 
took  a  taxicab  and  drove  to  the  Wintergarten  to  see 
the  Guerrero  bend  her  graceful  body  to  the  rhythm 
of  Spanish  music,  to  hear  Max  Bender  sing  slangy 
Berlin  obscenities  that  sent  the  audience  into  roars  of 
laughter,  and  to  applaud  the  antics  of  Buck  Melrose, 
the  eccentric  American  tumbler. 

The  performance  over,  they  decided  to  have  a  night 
cap  at  the  Tauben  Strasse  Casino,  but  on  the  street 
they  came  face  to  face  with  Colonel  Heinrich  Wede- 
kind. 

Very  stiffly  he  returned  the  Westerner's  salute,  but 
when  the  latter  was  about  to  walk  on  by  the  side  of 
his  friend,  he  stopped  him. 

"Lieutenant  Graves!" 

Tom  turned,  surprised. 

"Yes,  Colonel?" 

"A  few  words  with  you,  Lieutenant!" 

There  was  not  a  trace  of  the  usual  suavity  and 
friendliness  in  the  Colonel's  voice.  The  words  popped 
out,  clipped,  short,  metallic,  snarling,  arrogant. 

"But,  say — Colonel!"  stammered  Tom. 

"Was  fallt  Ihnen  denn  ein?"  came  the  sharp  reply. 


DER  DEUTSCHE  163 

"That  isn't  the  way  to  talk  to  your  superior  officer. 
Say :  'Zu  Befehl,  Herr  Obcrst!' ' 

"Zu  Befehl,  Herr  Oberst!"  said  Tom,  stiffly,  a  great 
rage  in  his  throat. 

"That's  better,"  sneered  Colonel  Wedekind,  "and 
now  you'll  go  home.  To  your  quarters,  sir.  At  once. 
I  order  you !" 

Tom  was  hurt.  He  was  mad  clear  through.  He 
longed  to  strike  the  other  with  his  clenched  fist.  But 
though  his  secret  anger  partially  submerged  his  in 
telligence  it  did  not  affect  his  natural  caution.  Too, 
he  heard  Vyvyan's  soft  whisper:  "Look  out,  old 
chap!"  and  so  he  only  allowed  himself  a  slight  irony 
as  he  replied : 

"All  right.  I  get  you.  So  long."  And  he  saluted, 
clicked  his  heels,  took  Lord  Vyvyan's  arm,  and  turned 
to  go. 

Again  the  Colonel's  harsh  bellow  stopped  him. 

"You  will  go  home  alone ;  without — ah — His  Lord 
ship.  You  will  not  leave  your  room.  I  shall  see  you 
in  the  morning.  Gut  en  Abend,  Herr  Leutnant"  he 
snarled  and  walked  away. 

"Now — what  the  hell  ...  ?"  commenced  Tom,  to 
be  cut  short  by  the  Englishman's  sober : 

"Do  what  you  are  told.  The  man's  your  superior 
officer.  Do  what  you  are  told,"  he  repeated,  very 
tensely.  "Only — for  God's  sake! — remember  your 
promise.  Do  not  sell  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  to  the 
Germans !"  And  he  hailed  a  passing  taxicab  and  was 
off  in  his  turn,  while  Tom  returned  to  his  flat,  think 
ing  deeply. 

The  next  morning,  shortly  after  ten,  Krauss  an 
nounced  Colonel  Wedekind. 

The  latter  was  a  little  more  friendly,  a  little  less 
sharp  than  he  had  been  the  night  before,  and  Tom 


1 64  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

was  inclined  to  ascribe  the  whole  scene  to  a  drop  too 
much  to  drink  when  the  German  suddenly  said: 

"Lieutenant  Graves.  Let's  get  to  business.  I 
look  with  great  disfavor  on  your  friendship  with  Lord 
Vyvyan.  That  is  why  I  ordered  you  to  your  quar 
ters.  In  the  future  you  will  cease  associating  with 
the  Englishman." 

Tom  shook  his  head. 

"Nothing  doing,"  he  replied.     "Vyvyan  is  my  pal/' 

Again  the  Colonel  flared  up. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  he  rasped  out. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  addressing  me  in  that  man 
ner?" 

"What  manner?" 

"That  American  slang  of  yours.  Speak  German  to 
me,  understand?" 

"Say,"  drawled  Tom,  "what's  wrong  with  Ameri 
can  slang?  Isn't  it  good  enough  for  you?" 

"Do  not  argue,  sir,  do  not  argue!  How  dare  you 
contradict  me?  Well — you  must  give  up  Lord 
Vyvyan."  He  rose  and  buckled  on  his  sword. 

Never  before,  since  he  had  grown  up,  had  Tom 
Graves  come  face  to  face,  as  it  were,  with  the  word 
Must.  It  was  not  contained  in  the  dictionary  of  his 
life.  He  was  willing  to  be  proved  wrong,  to  be  shown, 
to  be  persuaded,  to  do  the  right  thing  as  quickly  as 
he  saw  that  it  was  right. 

But  ...     "Must"? 

He  said  so. 

"Don't  you  give  me  any  of  that  Must  dope,"  he 
said.  "There's  no  Must  in  my  makeup.  Might  as 
well  talk  Siwash  to  me !" 

Colonel  Wedekind  had  turned  purple  with  rage. 
His  eyes  blazed,  his  mustache  bristled  like  that  of  an 


DER  DEUTSCHE  165 

angry  tomcat,  and  the  veins  on  his  temples  stood  out 
like  thick,  crimson  ropes. 

"Are  you  going  to  obey,  sir?"  he  asked.  "Yes — or 
no?" 

"No!"  came  the  horse  wrangler's  flat  dictum. 

"Very  well,  Lieutenant.  You  are  going  to  pay  for 
this  extraordinary,  unheard-of  piece  of  insubordina 
tion/'  and  he  was  out  of  the  room,  clanking  his  saber. 

Krauss  had  come  in  shortly  before  the  last  scene. 
He  was  very  pale,  for,  in  spite  of  everything,  in  spite 
of  his  calling,  he  had  grown  genuinely  fond  of  Tom. 

Tom  turned  to  him. 

"Say,  Krauss,"  he  asked,  "what  do  you  think  that 
old  coyote  is  going  to  do?" 

"I  am  afraid" — Krauss's  voice  held  the  suspicion  of 
a  quiver — "I  am  afraid  he  is  going  to  court-martial 
you,  sir." 

"Well,"  laughed  Tom,  "he's  got  another  think  com 
ing.  Me  for  the  protecting  folds  of  the  Stars  and 
Stripes !"  and  he  ran  out  of  the  room,  down  the  stairs 
into  the  street,  and  jumped  into  a  taxicab. 

"To  the  American  Consulate !"  he  ordered.  "In  the 
Friedrich  Strasse!" 

He  knew  John  Poole,  the  Vice-Consul,  a  Westerner 
like  himself,  who  had  watched  his  progress  through 
the  military  society  of  the  German  capital  with  a 
great  deal  of  glee,  and  was  proud  of  the  fact  that 
Tom  had  obtained  a  commission  in  the  Uhlans. 

Thus,  when  Tom  called  on  him  that  morning,  he 
waved  him  into  an  easy  chair  and  pushed  towards 
him  the  cigar  box  marked  "Visitors." 

"Have  a  smoke,  Tom,"  he  said  hospitably. 

Tom  lit  a  cigar,  blew  out  the  smoke  in  a  thick, 
straight  line,  and  touched  Poole  on  the  shoulder. 


166  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Poole,"  he  said,  "you  old  Oregonian  web-foot,  I 
am  in  a  hell  of  a  mess  and  I  got  to  have  help." 

Help  to  Poole  meant  money,  and  he  was  careful  by 
nature. 

"I  am  sorry,  Tom,"  he  said,  a  little  less  cordially, 
"I'm  bust  myself." 

"I'm  not  asking  you  for  money.  I  want  protec 
tion." 

"Protection — you  ?     And  from  whom  ?" 

"I  got  into  a  row  with  my  Colonel.  Krauss,  that's 
my  valet,  says  I'm  going  to  be  court-martialed  sure 
pop.  So  here  I  am.  This  is  the  American  consulate. 
Go  ahead  and  do  what  the  tax-payers  back  home  chip 
in  their  little  jitneys  for." 

Poole  cleared  his  throat. 

"Tom,"  he  said,  "the  American  Consulate  cannot 
protect  you." 

"Eh?"  queried  Tom  incredulously,  "what're  you  giv 
ing  us  ?  Didn't  you  hear  me  say  that  I  am  in  a  pickle 
up  to  my  fetlocks?" 

"Yes.  I  heard  you  all  right.  But — Tom — you  are 
not  an  American." 

"What?" 

"You  are  a  German !     Ein  D  cut  seller!" 

"Get  off  your  perch !  I  didn't  take  out  any  citizen 
ship  papers." 

"You  didn't  have  to.  You  got  your  commission  in 
the  army.  Swore  fealty  to  the  Emperor,  didn't  you?" 

"Sure.     Well?" 

"That  little  ceremony  changed  you  automatically 
into  a  German  subject.  Tom,"  he  added,  "I  am 
sorry." 

"So  am  I,  Poole.     Damned  sorry,  to  put  it  mildly !" 

And  he  left  the  Consulate  a  sadder  and  wiser  man. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE   ARMY 

THE  days  passed,  rounding  into  the  swing  of  the 
week.  But  no  spurred,  booted,  helmeted  orderly 
knocked  at  Tom's  door  to  hand  him  the  dread  blue 
envelope,  sealed  with  red,  of  the  summons  to 
Miliiargencht,  to  court-martial. 

The  waiting,  the  period  of  uncertainty  got  on  Tom's 
nerves,  and  he  turned  to  Krauss  for  an  explanation. 

"I  have  served  my  three  years  in  the  army,  sir," 
replied  the  valet,  "and  I  found  it  to  be  a  velvet  hand 
in  an  iron  glove.  You  never  know  what  to  expect 
— velvet  or  iron." 

"Well,  I  know  what  I'm  going  to  give  them  if  they 
drive  me  too  far.  Neither  velvet  nor  iron.  Just  a 
good,  plain,  old-fashioned  mule  kick!" 

But  he  felt  less  brave  than  his  words.  It  was  not 
that  he  was  afraid.  Not  for  himself,  that  is,  for  he 
did  not  understand  that  complicated  emotion  called 
Fear.  He  was  thinking  of  Bertha.  He  had  donned 
the  blue  and  crimson  of  the  Uhlans  really  more  for 
her  sake  than  for  any  other  reason. 

And  to  lose  it  now !  To  be  court-martialed,  perhaps 
disgraced  ? 

Why,  Bertha  was  a  proud  girl,  quick,  high  spirited. 
She  would  look  upon  him  with  contempt.  It  would 
be  the  end  of  his  love  dream — the  end  of  everything 
worth  while  in  his  life,  he  added  bitterly. 

167 


1 68  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

And  so  he  was  greatly  relieved  when  on  a  Tuesday, 
quite  early  in  the  morning,  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede 
called  on  him  and  told  him  that  cavalry  riding  school 
drill  was  on. 

"You're  detailed  to  it,  Graves,"  he  said. 

"Me?  Gosh.  There's  nothing  they  can  teach  me 
about  a  pony." 

"I  know,"  smiled  the  other.  "Nor  are  you  going  to 
be  taught.  You  are  going  to  teach  us,  the  other 
chaps." 

"Bully,"  cried  Tom,  and  he  accompanied  the  Baron. 

The  riding  school  of  the  Uhlans  of  the  Guard  was 
a  great,  square,  frowning  brick  barrack  in  the  North 
ern  part  of  the  town,  the  ancient  part  of  Berlin,  way 
beyond  the  Janowitzer  Bridge,  which,  many  genera 
tions  ago,  at  the  time  of  Frederick  the  Great,  had  been 
the  center  of  Prussian  fashion. 

To-day  it  is  gray  and  hopeless  and  sad.  Mile 
upon  mile  of  jerry-built  houses,  covered  on  the  out 
side  with  stucco,  that  panacea  against  all  the  social 
and  hygienic  evils  of  Berlin,  but  inside — the  inside 
which  the  foreign  tourist  never  sees — hotbeds  of  dirt 
and  vice  and  degeneracy.  Poor  students  live  side  by 
side  with  laborers,  with  the  countless  "police  licensed" 
prostitutes  of  the  capital,  with  underpaid,  underfed 
clerks.  A  police  station,  presided  over  by  a  red-faced, 
bullying,  saber  rattling  sergeant  is  every  five  blocks, 
and  on  every  corner  there  is  a  Destille  or  Stehbierhalle 
' — a  low  drinking  den.  It  was  in  similar  surroundings 
that  the  Parisian  conceived  the  germs  for  the  great 
French  Revolution  that,  over  night,  swept  away  the 
cobwebs  of  Crown  and  Bourbonism  with  the  clouting, 
unwashed,  impatient  fist  of  Democracy.  Not  so  in 
the  stuccoed  slums  of  Berlin. 

Not  the  slums  of  liberty  gloriously,  terribly  in  trav- 


THE  ARMY  169 

ail.     Only  the  slums  of  hopeless  misery,  choking  in 
their  own  stench  and  despair. 

Liberty,  Democracy,  healthy  Revolution,  can  only 
come  to  Germany  from  the  outside ! 

It  was  in  that  quarter  that  the  Uhlans  had  built 
their  new  riding  school,  their  new,  immense  stables 
that  were  far  better  than  the  tenements  surrounding 
them. 

Inside,  the  first  man  whom  Tom  Graves  saw  was 
Colonel  Heinrich  Wedekind. 

Tom  saluted.  The  Colonel  returned  the  greeting, 
then  talked  to  the  Westerner  in  an  easy,  friendly  man 
ner  as  if  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  had  happened, 
and  the  Baron,  seeing  both  Tom's  belief  and  astonish 
ment,  whispered  to  him  not  to  mind  "Old  Ironside" 
(that  was  Wedekind's  nickname),  as  he  was  liable  to 
have  martinet  fits  at  times,  and  there  was  never  any 
harm  done. 

Tom  was  shown  through  the  stables,  and  the  warm 
reek,  the  neighing,  stamping  horses  made  him  forget 
his  uniform.  He  was  himself  again,  the  horse  wran 
gler,  the  rider,  the  free  man  of  the  plains  born  and 
bred  to  the  game  of  hoof  and  saddle  and  quirt. 

With  zest  he  entered  upon  his  new  duties.  Too, 
with  absolute  mastery.  There  was  nothing  about  a 
horse  that  he  did  not  know.  He  did  not  belong  to 
the  older  generation  of  Westerners  who  broke  a  horse 
and,  incidentally,  its  spirit.  Tom  trained  them,  with 
gentle  voice,  with  infinite  patience,  with  knowing  hand 
and  a  certain  sense  of  humor  that  seemed  to  estal> 
lish  a  link  between  man  and  animal. 

And  thus  he  taught  the  others. 

"Back  up  there!"  he  yelled  to  a  fussy  old  major 
who  was  pressing  his  fat  knees  into  a  bay  mare's 


170          [THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

withers.  "This  isn't  a  contest  of  strength  between 
you  and  the  horse!  No,  no!  This  isn't  the  way  to 
make  a  horse  go !  Let  your  legs  swing  loose.  What  ? 
Never  rode  on  a  long  stirrup  ?  Well,  here's  where  you 
are  going  to  start !" 

And,  waving  aside  the  stable  sergeant  who  came 
running  up,  he  himself  lengthened  the  stirrup  leathers 
and  adjusted  the  saddle  girth. 

He  clacked  his  tongue. 

"Get  up,  major!  There — down  on  your  seat  .  .  . 
Down,  I  say!  Don't  hold  on  to  the  reins  like  that! 
My  God,  why  do  you  have  to  have  martingales  in  this 
benighted  country?" 

Again,  to  a  young  lieutenant : 

"Don't  lose  your  nerve,  sonny.  I'll  show  you. 
Got  such  a  thing  as  a  straight  bit?  No?  All  right!" 

He  turned  to  a  farrier  sergeant. 

"Here.  Take  this  and  flatten  it  out.  This  way — 
hammer  down  the  corners.  Make  it  an  inch  shorter. 
And  look  out  for  the  leather  slips !" 

Thus  all  morning,  and  that  night,  at  mess,  a  con 
sensus  of  opinion  amongst  the  younger  officers  would 
have  established  the  fact  that  Tom  Graves,  ex-horse 
wrangler,  was  the  most  popular  man  in  the  Uhlans 
of  the  Guard. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  STATEMENT 

TOM  GRAVES  discovered  that  Baron  von  Gotz- 
Wrede  had  not  been  guilty  of  exaggeration  when  he 
had  said  that  an  officer  in  the  Guards  must  have 
a  private  income  of  at  least  fifty  thousand  marks  a 
year. 

The  demands  upon  his  pocketbook  were  heavy  and 
incessant. 

His  uniforms  alone,  and  there  were  over  a  dozen 
of  them,  from  simple  fatigue  and  stable  uniform  to  a 
gorgeous  affair  used  for  parade  drill,  cost  more  than 
,Tom  back  home  would  have  spent  for  clothes  in  a  life 
time.  His  full  dress  sword  was  a  hammered,  chiseled, 
engraved  work  of  art  worth  its  weight  in  silver. 

Then  there  were  the  horses,  those  for  himself  as 
well  as  for  his  Bursche  and  his  stable  boy,  the  latter 
two  new  acquisitions.  And  the  horses  were  not  the 
shaggy,  round-eyed  range  ponies  one  can  pick  up  at 
a  bargain  in  the  West  after  roundup.  These  animals 
were  thoroughbreds,  English,  Arab,  Kentucky,  and 
Hungarian,  and  they  cost  a  thoroughbred  price. 

He  had  to  subscribe  to  the  band  fund,  the  regi 
mental  charity  fund,  the  mess  fund,  the  Liebesmahl 
fund,  and  half-a-dozen  others.  He  had  to  entertain 
lavishly.  Thus  the  sum  which  Vyvyan  had  advanced 
him  melted  like  snow  in  a  Northwestern  chinook  wind, 
and  it  was  not  many  weeks  before  he  saw  the  tail  end 
of  his  roll. 

The  Baron  must  have  guessed  something  of  the  sort. 

171 


THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"I'll  buy  that  mine  of  yours,"  he  said  time  after 
time,  with  wearying  Teutonic  persistency,  thinking 
that  repetition  was  synonymous  with  argument; 
chiefly  one  day,  late  in  November  when  Tom  had 
been  initiated  into  the  delights  of  baccara  at  a  pri 
vate  Club  for  Guard  officers  and  high  Prussian  offi 
cials  called  sardonically:  "Verein  der  Harmlosen — 
Association  of  the  Innocent,"  where,  finding  out  that 
all  his  poker  training  did  not  help  him  a  whit  in  a 
pure  game  of  chance,  he  had  dropped  over  eight  thou 
sand  marks  to  the  little  Hussar,  Graf  von  Bissingen- 
Trotzow. 

So  it  was  with  an  ear-shattering  whoop  of  relief 
that  early  one  morning  he  opened  and  read  a  long 
cablegram,  signed  Alec  Wynn,  which  brought  the 
startling  news  that  Truex  was  not  dead,  that  the  liti 
gation  against  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  had  been  dis 
missed,  that  Lehneke  was  in  jail,  and  that  once  more 
Tom  was  on  the  high  crest  of  prosperity. 

"Wedekind  and  I  are  celebrating  to-night!''  wound 
up  the  lawyer's  message.  "Til  add  the  cost  of  it  to 
my  fee" 

"Go  to  it!"  Tom  cabled  back.  "I  shall  do  some  lit 
tle  celebrating  myself  at  this  entd!" 

He  did. 

First  he  telephoned  to  Vyvyan,  who  congratulated 
him,  but  was  unable  to  attend  the  festivities.  Then 
he  gathered  about  him  a  baker's  dozen  of  chosen 
spirit's  of  his  regiment. 

The  celebration  began  with  a  dinner  at  Dressel's, 
progressed  through  the  half-dozen  layers  of  the  Berlin 
night-life-layer-cake,  from  a  look-in  at  the  latest 
Metropol  Theater  Review  where,  typical  of  the  Ger 
man  capital,  the  American  actress,  Madge  Lessing, 
was  the  female  lead,  and  Giampietro,  an  Austrian  ex- 


THE  STATEMENT  173; 

cavalry  officer,  the  male  lead,  to  the  newest  Cabaret 
where  the  long-haired  artist  at  the  piano,  a  cross  be 
tween  Paul  Verlaine  and  Ernest  Dowson,  trilled  pas 
sionate  serenades  that  would  have  curdled  both  County 
Council  and  Comstock  blood;  to  wind  up  in  a  rapid, 
impromptu  switch  into  civilian  dress,  at  Bissingen- 
Trotzow's  apartment,  and  a  dance  at  one  of  the  West- 
end  all-night  places  where  stout  provincials,  on  their 
annual  spree,  were  opening  wine,  where  coco  ties  from 
all  the  world  had  their  nightly  rendezvous,  and  where 
a  Bavarian  orchestra  was  trying  hard  to  bring  Teu 
tonic  order  and  efficiency  into  the  disorderly,  synco? 
pated  swing  and  rhythm  of  the  latest  American  rag 
time  tune. 

Results :  a  headache  and  a  brown  taste,  and  a  none 
too  pleasant  word  when  early  the  next  morning  (Tom 
thanked  his  stars  that  it  was  a  free  day,  without  stable 
or  drill  duties)  Krauss  announced  Baron  von  Gotz- 
Wrede. 

"For  the  love  o'  Mike,  Baron,"  Tom  said  weakly, 
holding  his  tousled  red  head,  "don't  speak  to  me! 
Have  a  heart.  I  have  a  feeling  like  .  .  ." 

"I  know.  Wait.  I'll  mix  you  something  that  will 
touch  the  right  spot,"  laughed  the  other.  He  went  to 
the  kitchen  door  and  spoke  a  few  words  to  the  valet 
who,  a  few  minutes  later,  brought  in  a  steaming  cup 
of  coffee  cut  with  kirsch. 

"Swallow  that!"  commanded  the  Baron. 

"You're  the  doctor!"  Tom  drank  the  steaming, 
aromatic  mixture,  blinked  his  eyes,  smiled,  and  sat  up. 
"Say,"  he  continued,  "and  you're  a  great  little  doctor. 
I'll  call  you  in  again.  Thanks  for  coming." 

"I  had  to  come.  Matter  of  duty.  You  see,  I  am 
the  adjutant  of  the  regiment  .  .  ." 

"Sure.     Say — is  old  Wedekind  kicking  up  again  ? 


174  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Threatening  me  with  court-martial  for  some  sin  or 
other?" 

"No,  no.  Just  a  simple  little  routine  matter." 
And  von  Gotz-Wrede  explained  to  the  Westerner  that 
he  had  not  yet  made  out  his  sworn  statement  of  prop 
erty  for  the  regiment,  to  be  filed  with  the  War  Office. 

"What  statement?" 

"Oh — just  a  little  statement.  You  know  our  army 
administration  is  nuts  on  system.  Here  you  are!" 
pulling  a  blank  from  the  leather  manuscript  case  he 
was  carrying — "Have  a  look  at  it !" 

Tom  took  the  blank,  glanced  at  it,  and,  under  the 
direction  of  the  Baron,  filled  it  out. 

It  read  as  follows: 


Name :  Tom  Graves. 

Regiment:  Erstes  Garde  Uhlanen  Regiment,  Kaiser 

Alexander. 

Squadron :  A. 

Stationirt:  Berlin. 

Oberst :  Heinrich  Wedekind. 

Ich  erklare  hiermit  auf  Eid,  dass  das  folgende  mem 
gesammter  Besitz  ist:  (I  give  oath  herewith  that  the  fol 
lowing  is  my  entire  property:) 

In  check  account  with  Deutsche  Bank:    Mark:    5789,50 
In   check  account  with  Old  National, 

Spokane:  Dollars:    9883,37 

Horses :     Bay  mare  "Searchlight," 
Grey  gelding  "Harold," 
Bay  mare  "Foxhall," 
Chestnut  stallion  "Boxer," 
Black  mare  "Upsala." 

Bonds :  None. 

Stocks :  None. 

Real  Estate:  None. 

Other  property:  The  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  Mine,  Hoo 
doo  District,  Idaho,  U.  S.  /. 


THE  STATEMENT  175 

"Sign  here,"  said  the  Baron,  after  Tom  had  filled 
out  the  rubrics  under  his  supervision.  "That's  right !" 

He  turned  the  paper : 

"And  now  sign  here,  Tom." 

Again  Tom  signed  his  name. 

"Thanks/7  said  the  Baron,  "that's  finished.  Sorry 
to  have  bothered  you."  He  returned  the  document  to 
his  case.  "Go  back  to  sleep,  old  man.  Au  revoir!" 
and  he  left. 

All  the  rest  of  that  week  Tom  Graves  had  not  a 
single  moment  in  which  to  see  any  of  his  friends,  not 
even  Lord  Vyvyan  or  Bertha  Wedekind.  He  was  on 
duty  mornings  and  afternoons,  and  had  furthermore 
been  detailed  to  special  lectures  every  evening,  includ 
ing  Sundays,  at  the  Kriegsschule — the  War  School — 
in  the  Dorotheen  Strasse. 

It  was  a  typically  German  experience  through  which 
he  was  passing. 

Whatever  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede's  ulterior  reasons 
for  suggesting  an  army  career  to  the  Westerner,  what 
ever  the  ulterior  reasons  of  Colonel  Wedekind,  of 
Prince  Ludwig  Karl,  of  the  Emperor  himself  for  con 
firming  the  Baron's  choice  and  granting  the  gazetting, 
now  that  Tom  actually  was  in  the  army,  the  army  pro 
ceeded — tried  to  proceed — to  Prussianize  him,  his 
speech  as  well  as  his  limbs,  his  thoughts  as  well  as  his 
unborn  thought-germs,  his  very  imagination,  his  very 
morality,  his  very  prejudices.  He  had  entered  the 
crunching  maw  of  the  great  machine — the  greatest, 
for  sheer,  cold-blooded,  soulless  efficiency,  the  world 
has  yet  seen — and  it  was  up  to  the  machine,  to  the 
trained  engineers  who  directed  its  destinies,  to  turn 
Tom  into  the  finished  product,  the  stiff,  rectangular, 
disciplined  Prussian  pattern. 

The  machine,  the  engineers,  began  by  calmly  assum- 


176  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

ing  that  Tom's  human  life  had  commenced  the  mo 
ment  he  joined  the  Prussian  army.  What  had  gone 
before,  his  American  blood  and  birth  and  training  and 
freedom,  was  not  to  be  considered.  It  simply  was 
forgotten.  Did  not  exist.  Never  had  existed. 

Tom's  was  one  mind,  untrained,  against  a  crushing, 
overwhelming  majority  of  trained  minds. 

Yet  he  fought.     He  resisted. 

Unconsciously,  of  course,  for  he  hardly  realized 
what  was  happening  to  him.  But  there  was  in  his 
veins  a  drop  of  Scots  blood  from  his  mother's  side, 
and  his  father's  family  had  once  or  twice  intermar 
ried  with  Vermont  Yankees,  who  had  left  their 
worked-out  farms  and  taken  the  wilderness  trail. 
Thus  he  was  of  a  combative,  an  argumentative  turn 
of  mind.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  replying  to  questions 
by  asking  one.  He  argued  in  a  dryly,  persistent  man 
ner. 

"This  is  right — and  that — and  again  this !"  said  his 
teachers  at  War  School. 

"Why?"  said  the  irrepressible  horse  wrangler.  "I 
want  to  know." 

And  it  was  this  incessant  "I  want  to  know"  which, 
in  the  end,  saved  Tom  from  a  great  tragedy. 

Thus  he  resisted  unconsciously. 

But  there  was  one  thing  which  he  fought  quite  con 
sciously,  one  thing  which  he  refused  to  learn,  simply 
because  he  was  not  able  to. 

And  that  was  machinery. 

"I'm  all  right  with  horses,"  he  told  Major  Kurt 
Werningerode,  the  chief  instructor,  "and  I  caught  on 
to  the  saber  and  lance  trick.  But — Gosh ! — I'm  in  the 
cavalry.  What  the  hell's  the  use  of  my  learning  all 
that  dope  about  wheels  and  electricity  and  steam  and 
things?" 


THE  STATEMENT  177 

"The  cavalry  are  the  eyes  of  the  army,"  said  the 
Major  sententiously.  "But  what  earthly  good  are  eyes 
without  nerves  to  register  what  they  see,  brain  cells 
to  store  the  knowledge  away,  without  hands  and  arms 
and  legs  and  feet  to  obey  the  nervous  reaction  of  the 
brain  cells  ?  Furthermore,"  he  went  on,  "what  chance 
has  the  bare  hand  against  the  hand  armed  with 
machinery  ?" 

"Sure,"  admitted  Tom.  "But,  Gee  II  am  a.  cavalry 
man.  No  getting  away  from  that.  Let  somebody 
else  act  the  part  of  the  hand,  the  machine." 

"No.  In  modern  warfare  nobody  knows  what 
might  happen." 

"Go  on !     Who's  talking  of  war  ?" 

"I  am !"  the  Major  replied  succinctly.  "That's  what 
we  are  here  for,  Lieutenant  Graves.  The  army  isn't 
all  cakes  and  ale  and  glittering  uniforms  and  parade 
reviews  in  front  of  visiting  royalty.  War  may 
come  .  .  ." 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it !" 

"You  won't  be  consulted.  And  if  war  comes,  no 
body,  I  repeat,  knows  what  might  happen.  Just 
suppose  your  squadron  is  rushed  in  suddenly,  on 
foot  .  .  . 

"Not  on  foot?"  groaned  the  Westerner. 

"Yes.  On  foot.  Suppose  you4"  are  rushed  in  to 
support  a  brigade  of  infantry.  Suppose  the  day  is 
critical.  Suppose  the  battle,  the  whole  campaign,  the 
very  fate  of  the  Empire,  depends  on  the  defense  of  a 
certain  bridge  head.  For  hours  it  has  been  shelled. 
Nearly  destroyed.  Nearly  taken.  The  sappers  and 
miners  have  been  decimated.  The  infantry  barely 
holding  its  own.  The  reserve  is  cut  off  by  a  vicious 
barrage  fire.  But  your  squadron  has  been  scouting, 
is  there,  in  direct  communication,  direct  support. 


178          THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Then  it  would  be  up  to  you,  Lieutenant  Graves,  to  do 
the  sappers'  work.  Up  to  you  and  your  squadron. 
That's  why  you  must  familiarize  yourself  with  ma 
chinery." 

He  pointed  to  the  blue  print  on  the  table. 

"Now — as  to  this  lifting- jack,"  he  recommenced  his 
lecture  in  dry,  academic  accents,  and  Tom  bent  his  red 
head  and  listened. 

But  it  was  of  no  use.  He  could  not  understand,  try 
as  he  might.  His  was  not  the  mind  to  grasp  and 
retain  mechanical  and  scientific  details.  In  every 
other  respect  he  was  a  good  officer.  He  knew  horses, 
of  course,  and  had  mastered  quickly  and  thoroughly 
the  art  of  saber  and  lance.  Too,  he  was  an  excellent 
squadron  leader,  for  he  had  the  natural  knack  of  the 
free  Westerner,  the  "good  mixer,"  to  make  people 
obey  him  without  bullying  them,  and  he  got  on  splen 
didly  with  the  privates  and  the  non-coms.  It  was  the 
same  with  his  brother  officers.  Of  natural  dignity, 
not  to  forget  natural  humor,  clean  and  straight  and 
square,  he  was  socially  easy  and  sympathetic. 

But  machinery?  The  machinery  of  modern  war 
fare? 

"Auf  Ehrenwort,  Herr  Kamerad!"  snarled  little, 
rosy-cheeked  Ensign  Baron  von  Konigsmark,  recently 
graduated  from  the  Lichterfelder  cadets  school  and 
gazetted  to  the  Uhlans  of  the  Guard,  "if  ever  you 
should  have  special  reasons  for  quitting  the  army  in  a 
hurry  and  there  was  a  ninety  horse-power  Rolls-Royce 
at  your  door,  all  gassed  up  and  ready  to  leap,  you 
wouldn't  know  which  button  to  push." 

"Right,  young  fellow,"  grinned  Tom.  "I'd  rather 
have  one  horse-power,  as  long  as  it's  a  horse  of  flesh 
and  blood  and  bone,  than  ninety  horse-power  of  steel 


THE  STATEMENT  179 

and  spark  plugs.  I'm  the  original  little  man  on  horse 
back!" 

The  result  was  that  finally,  at  least  in  that  one  par 
ticular,  the  Prussian  war  machine  gave  in.  Tom  was 
released  from  special  lectures,  and  was  detailed  alto 
gether  to  stable  duties,  where  he  made  supremely  good. 

Thus  his  evenings  were  his  own,  and  he  spent  more 
than  half  of  them  with  Bertha. 

Regularly  he  proposed  to  her.  Regularly  she  re 
fused  him.  And  the  next  day  he  would  come  right 
back  to  the  attack  with  a  certain  affectionate  defiance. 

"All  your  fault,  Bertha,"  he  said,  when  she  ob 
jected  laughingly;  "you  want  to  turn  me  into  a  Dutch 
man,  and  I  have  learned  the  first  trick  of  their  game. 
I've  become  pig-headed,  see?  Therefore — will  you 
marry  me,  Bertha  ?  I'm  just  plumb  crazy  about  you !" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

HAMBURG-TACOMA 

A  FEW  days  later  Tom  received  a  letter  from  Alec 
Wynn  in  detailed  explanation  of  the  cable  that  the  suit 
against  his  ownership  of  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  had 
been  thrown  out  of  court. 

First  the  lawyer  described  the  visit  of  Baptiste 
Lamoureux,  the  French-Canadian  half-breed,  to  his 
office.  Together,  as  soon  as  Tom  had  wired  the  five 
thousand  dollars,  they  had  taken  the  train  to  Nelson, 
B.  C.,  where  they  had  met  a  friend  of  Baptiste,  an 
other  half-breed  by  the  name  of  Jean  Marie  Trudeau, 
a  trapper,  who  had  returned  a  few  days  earlier  from 
a  look  at  his  traps  in  the  Elk  River  country,  where 
Truex  had  prospected  and  where  he  had  supposedly 
found  his  death.  The  three  of  them  had  left  Nelson 
on  horseback,  and  had  struck  across  the  hills.  With 
the  utmost  silence  and  caution,  the  trapper  guiding, 
they  had  dropped  into  a  cup-like  valley  where  they 
had  come  face  to  face  with  .  .  . 

"With  Truex,"  the  letter  went  on,  "alive,  tied, 
gagged,  and  as  mad  as  a  hornet — and  watched  by  a 
two-gun  ruffian.  But  we  had  the  drop  on  him,  re 
leased  'Old  Man*  Truex,  who  at  this  writing  is  still 
swearing  terrible  cuss  words,  and  turned  Mister  Ruf 
fian  over  to  the  sheriff  at  Nelson.  The  trapper,  who 
had  come  across  the  thing  by  accident,  received  two 

180 


HAMBURG-TACOMA  181 

and  a  half  thousand  dollars,  so  did  Baptiste,  and  on 
last  accounts  they  are  both  still  painting  Nelson,  B.  C., 
a  rich  crimson.  I  returned  straight  to  Spokane,  and 
had  a  talk  with  the  Prosecuting  Attorney.  Of  course 
the  case  was  clear.  Truex  had  been  kidnapped,  and 
the  coroner  as  well  as  the  three  witnesses  had  been 
bribed  and  had  perjured  themselves.  But  at  first  we 
kept  quiet.  We  did  not  say  a  word  to  Herr  Eberhardt 
Lehneke  or  his  side-kicks.  You  see,  we  wanted  to 
catch  him  good  and  for  keeps.  In  certain  respects,  we 
succeeded.  In  another,  we  failed. 

"As  to  the  latter,  while  we  got  the  coroner  and  the 
three  witnesses  by  their  short  hair,  we  found  it  impos 
sible  to  establish  legal  connection  between  them — the 
kidnapping,  the  fake  burial,  the  perjured  statement — 
and  Lehneke.  Those  fellows  must  have  been  paid 
darned  well,  for  they  absolutely  refused  to  implicate 
their  principal.  Too,  his  papers  seemed  all  right.  We 
had  to  accept  them  as  such,  since  there  were  the 
several  sworn  statements  of  the  German  Consul- 
General  in  New  York  who,  thanks  to  his  office,  is 
above  suspicion. 

"On  the  other  hand,  Herr  Lehneke  made  one  little 
mistake.  He  was  too  all-fired  impatient.  You  see, 
the  mine  had  been  turned  over  to  a  receiver,  Seafield 
Granahan,  until  the  case  was  completely  settled.  There 
was  an  injunction  "against  your  working  it.  But,  as 
long  as  the  litigation  was  not  finished  one  way  or  the 
other,  the  same  injunction  applied  to  Lehneke.  He 
had  no  right  to  work  the  mine. 

"But  he  did,  with  the  connivance  of  Granahan,  the 
receiver,  who  also  must  have  been  thumpingly  well 
bribed. 

"Lehneke  mined  some  of  the  ore,  treated,  and 
shipped  it.  We  jugged  both  him  and  Granahan  and 


182  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

caught  the  ore  shipment,  twenty-seven  car  loads,  at 
Tacoma,  where  they  were  backed  into  a  water-front 
siding  awaiting  transportation  by  sea. 

"By  the  way,  and  this  is  funny,  Lehneke  may  be  a 
clever  crook,  but  he  is  a  rotten  judge  of  ore.  For, 
after  treating  it,  he  carefully  left  the  gold  at  the  mine, 
merely  taking  the  bulky  residue,  which  contained  just 
a  little  silver  and  copper,  and  of  course  that  unknown 
ingredient,  metal  or  whatever  it  is,  which  disturbed 
the  scientific  world  so  much  at  the  time  when  Newson 
Garrett  made  his  assay  .  .  ." 

That  evening  Tom  met  Vyvyan  at  the  "Gross  Berlin 
American  Bar."  The  Colonel  had  said  no  more  to 
Tom  about  his  friendship  with  the  Englishman  since 
their  scene  on  the  subject,  and  so  the  Westerner  saw 
a  good  deal  of  his  British  friend. 

They  were  sitting  in  a  box,  to  the  left  of  the  bar, 
where  McCaffrey  had  served  them  with  his  own  hands. 

Tom  read  the  letter  to  his  friend. 

Vyvyan  listened  without  a  word.  Only  when  it 
came  to  the  passage  of  the  ore  shipment,  he  gave  a  little 
exclamation. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "it  makes  no  difference.  For  you 
;.:  .  .  "•  He  cleared  his  throat,  and  was  silent. 

Poole,  the  American  Vice-Consul,  had  come  into  the 
room,  saw  the  two,  and  gave  greeting : 

"Hullo,  fellows!" 

"Hullo  yourself!  What're  you  drinking?"  came 
Tom's  hospitable  voice. 

"The  usual !"  Poole  said  to  McCaffrey,  who  brought 
him  a  high-ball  of  rye  and  ginger  ale. 

Poole  sat  down,  opened  his  evening  paper,  the 
VossiscHe  Zeitung,  read  a  few  lines,  chuckled,  and 
looked  up. 


H  AMBURG-T  ACOM  A  1 83 

"Say,"  he  gave  judgment,  "these  Dutchmen  aren't 
half  as  smart  as  they  imagine." 

"Aren't  they?"  drawled  the  Englishman. 

"Exactly!  Greedy  pigs,  that's  what  they  are. 
Forever  trying  to  cop  all  the  world's  trade  by  fair 
means  or  foul.  But  once  in  a  while  their  greed  sort 
of  absquatulates  with  their  gray  matter." 

"Ah — dry  up!"  Tom  gurgled  into  his  glass.  "We 
know  you're  in  the  Consular  line  of  easy  job  and  got 
to  look  after  the  dollar-squeezing  end  of  the  diplomatic 
game.  But  what  do  we  care?" 

"Well,"  replied  Poole,  "you  and  I  are  both  from  the 
Wild  and  Woolly.  And  this  .  .  .  Well,  I  don't  want 
to  bore  you  ..."  He  folded  the  paper  and  put  it  in 
his  pocket. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  Englishman. 

Poole  laughed. 

"Just  what  I  told  you.  Once  in  a  while  the  Ger 
mans  overshoot  their  mark.  You  see,  the  paper  says 
that  the  German  Government  has  decided  to  subsidize 
a  line  of  steamships,  fast  steel  freighters,  half-a-dozen 
of  'em  owned  by  the  H.  A.,  to  run  between  Hamburg 
and  Tacoma,  through  the  Suez  Canal,  stopping  at 
Singapore  and  Hongkong  for  coal." 

"Well?"  asked  Tom. 

"Heavens,  man!"  went  on  the  Vice-Consul,  "there 
isn't  enough  direct  business  between  Hamburg  and 
Tacoma  to  subsidize  a  measly  tramp  boat.  Govern 
ments  only  pay  subsidy  to  compete  with  foreign  ships. 
And  what  great  foreign  line  goes  direct  from  Europe 
to  the  Northwestern  ports  ?  Why,  it's  ridiculous.  It's 
a  great,  big,  reeking,  nickel-plated  commercial  bull! 
Yes— these  Dutchmen  sure  overreach  themselves  once 
in  a  while.  Hullo?"  to  Vyvyan,  who  had  risen  and 
had  taken  his  coat  and  hat,  "leaving  us  ?" 


i84  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Yes.     I  have  some  business  to  attend  to." 
"Mighty  sudden,"  said  Tom.     "I  thought  we  were 

going  to  spend  the  evening  together." 

"Yes,  yes!"     The  Englishman  was  already  on  the 

threshold.     "I   forgot  something  rather  important!" 

and  he  was  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

PERSONA  NON  GRATA 

THE  telephone  bell  cut  through  Tom's  revery  with 
a  jarring,  acrid  twang. 

Lazily,  half  reluctantly,  he  turned  from  the  open 
window  where  he  had  been  sitting,  since  his  return 
from  the  "Gross  Berlin  American  Bar,"  pleasantly 
shivering  in  the  sudden  chill  of  autumn  leaping  into 
winter.  It  was  such  a  long,  still  night.  Few  people 
roamed  the  streets  of  the  Westend.  A  glittering  veil 
of  stars  was  flung  across  the  crest  of  the  night,  and  a 
sweet  smell  was  in  the  air,  a  mixture  of  far-off  snow 
and  decaying  leaves. 

Tom  had  filled  his  lungs  with  it.  It  had  made  him 
think  of  home,  his  own  country,  the  Northwest. 

Dr-rr-rrr  came  the  telephone  bell  again,  with  an  im 
patient,  accusing  note.  Tom  left  the  window.  He 
took  down  the  receiver.  Next  door,  in  the  valet's 
room,  Krauss,  too,  was  gluing  his  ear  to  the  hard 
rubber  tube. 

"Hello." 

"Hello,  hello,"  came  the  voice  from  the  other  end  of 
the  line.  "Is  that  you,  Tom?" 

"Yes.     Who's  that?" 

"Vyvyan.     Got  to  see  you  at  once." 

"Why — I  thought  you  told  me  you  had  important 
business  .  .  ." 

"Exactly!  That's  why  I  got  to  see  you.  And  I 
don't  want  that  nosy  servant  of  yours  to  hang  'round 
and  listen." 

"Ah — keep  your  shirt  on.  Krauss  is  in  his  little 

185 


1 86  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

chaste  dada,  dreaming  of  blond  beer,  a  blond  breakfast 
roll,  and  a  blond  hausfrau." 

"All  right.     Be  straight  over." 

Fifteen  minutes  later  a  motor-car  purred  to  a  stop 
in  front  of  the  apartment  house.  There  was  a  ring 
ing  of  bells,  angry,  impatient  voices,  a  drawing  of 
bolts  and  slamming  of  heavy  doors,  and  Vyvyan  came 
into  the  flat. 

"Sure  Krauss  is  asleep?" 

"You  bet.  Convince  yourself  if  you  do  not  be 
lieve  me." 

"That's  just  what  I'll  do.     Where  is  his  room?" 

"There — to  the  left,"  said  Tom,  pointing;  and  the 
Englishman  walked  over  on  tiptoe,  pressed  his  ear 
against  the  door,  and  listened. 

There  wasn't  a  sound. 

Very  cautiously  he  opened  the  door.  The  electric 
light  from  the  hall  danced  into  the  room,  sharply  out 
lining  the  valet's  face.  The  man  was  sleeping  the 
sleep  of  the  just,  breathing  rhythmically  and  peace 
fully.  Only,  as  soon  as  the  Englishman  had  closed 
the  door  again,  the  sleeping  man  groped  underneath  his 
pillow,  drew  out  a  long,  silk-covered  rubber  tube  that 
disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  wall,  and  inserted 
the  narrow  orifice  in  his  right  ear. 

"Well,  what's  biting  you?"  Tom  asked  his  friend, 
back  in  the  other  room. 

Vyvyan  looked  the  Westerner  up  and  down,  with 
cutting,  sneering  contempt. 

"I  tell  you  what's  biting  me,"  he  replied,  his  voice 
at  first  low,  then  leaping  up  extraordinarily  strong,  all 
his  habitual  British  phlegm  suddenly  dancing  away  in 
.a  whirlwind  of  temper.  "You  are  a  damned,  double 
crossing,  traitorous  .  .  ." 

"Hold  on!     Back  up  your  horse!"     Tom's  words 


PERSONA  NON  GRATA  187 

came  in  a  deep,  soft,  feline  purr.  "Don't  you  say 
things  for  which  you  might  be  sorry  afterwards!" 

"I?  Sorry?  My  God,  I'm  only  sorry  for  you,  you 
damned  .  .  ." 

"Vyvyan,"  cut  in  the  Westerner  in  that  same  soft 
purr,  "I  gave  you  warning!" 

"Warning  of  what?" 

"That  I  am  going  to  lose  my  temper  in  exactly  three 
seconds — unless  you  behave  and  tell  me  straight  what 
is  the  matter !" 

The  Englishman -looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  min 
ute.  His  Adam's  apple  worked  up  and  down  like  a 
ball  in  a  fountain.  He  seemed  to  swallow  his  rage  as 
if  it  were  some  nauseating  drug,  choking  him. 

Then  he  spoke.  And  his  voice  was  quite  cold,  quite 
passionless. 

"All  right.  I  know  that  Germany  is  a  swine  of  a 
land.  I  know  that  the  rulers  of  Germany  hold  the 
charming  belief  that  the  rest  of  the  world  is  a  dirty, 
decadent  shrub  that  must  be  mulched  with  caked  blood 
— and  that  the  German  sword  will  supply  that  same 
blood.  I  know  that  Germany  intends  to  .  .  ." 

"For  the  love  o'  Mike,  what  are  you  driveling 
about?" 

"Wait.  You  asked  me  to  explain.  And  I  am  doing 
it.  I  know  that  Germany  is  an  ugly  beast  ready  to 
jump  at  the  throat  of  civilization  the  moment  the  word 
is  said,  the  moment  the  leash  is  slipped.  I  know  how 
they  are  working  here,  for  that  one  end,  blood  and 
conquest  and  booty,  with  all  their  might,  their  energy, 
their  strength.  I  know  Germans.  They  believe. 
They  obey.  They  think  that  whatever  is  told  them 
by  their  master  is  the  truth.  But  you,  man  .  .  ." 

"What  have  I  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"You're  an  American,  an  Anglo-Saxon,  a  free  man, 


1 88  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

an  independent  man.  You  are  an  individual,  not  a 
Prussianized  number !  I  can  excuse  the  German  man 
in  the  street.  He  doesn't  know  any  better.  He  has 
been  clouted  and  flattened  into  a  pattern.  But  you 
.  .  .  My  God!"  Again  his  passion  was  getting  the 
best  of  him.  "You  .  .  ." 

"Cut  out  the  melodrama!     Come  to  the  point !" 

"You  gave  me  your  promise,  your  solemn  promise, 
and  you  broke  it !  That's  all !"  ' 

Vyvyan  turned  to  go  when  Tom's  hand  caught  his 
shoulder  and  twirled  him  round. 

"That  isn't  all  by  a  long  shot.  What  promise  did 
I  give  you?" 

"The  Yankee  Doodle  Glory!  You  promised  that 
you  would  not  let  it  get  into  German  hands !" 

"Well — didn't  I  keep  my  promise?" 

"You  didn't!" 

"I  did!" 

"You  didn't!" 

"I  did!" 

"You  .  .  ." 

"Scissors,  Vyvyan !  One  of  us  two  is  nutty.  Let's 
figure  out  who!"  The  words  were  spoken  with  such 
evident  good-humor,  such  utter  sincerity,  that  Vyvyan 
controlled  himself. 

"Tom,"  he  said  very  quietly,  "didn't  you  sign  a 
statement  just  the  other  day?" 

"A  .  .  .  ?  Sure.  I  remember.  The  morning  after 
Alec  cabled  me  that  I  had  won  my  suit  and  after  I 
had  gone  on  that  grand,  celebrating  spree.  Yes. 
Statement  of  property  for  the  regimental  archives." 

"Did  you  read  through  the  whole  document?" 

"Well— no!" 

"Would  have  been  better  if  you  had,"  Vyvyan  said 
dryly. 


PERSONA  NON  GRATA  189 

"Why?" 

"Because  on  the  back  of  that  little  statement — and 
you  signed  that,  too — was  a  clause  by  the  terms  of 
which  you  turned  your  whole  property,  including  the 
Yankee  Doodle  Glory,  over  to  the  German  Govern 
ment." 

"Gee!"  Tom  was  dumbfounded.  "I  never 
thought  .  .  ." 

"You  should  have.  You  should  never  sign  any 
thing,  anywhere,  chiefly  here  in  Germany,  without 
reading  it  through  first."  The  Englishman  spoke 
with  a  certain  hopeless,  weary  despair.  "Well — the 
harm's  done — and  there  you  are.  I  am  sorry  I  lost 
my  temper,  old  chap.  I  thought  .  .  ." 

"That's  all  right,  Vyvyan.  I  know  what  you 
thought.  You  thought  I  double-crossed  you.  You 
made  it  pretty  damned  plain.  And  .  .  ."  Suddenly 
he  laughed.  "Why,"  he  went  on,  "there's  no  harm 
done.  They  won't  steal  my  little  pot.  I  am  sure  the 
Germans  won't  take  advantage  of  that  clause." 

"They  won't  steal  your  money.  I  know.  Only — 
they're  going  to  work  that  mine  for  you." 

"I  have  my  own  engineer  in  charge.  Fellow  called 
Gamble.  Good  man." 

"All  right.  I  lay  you  long  odds — say  a  hundred  to 
one — that  Gamble  is  going  to  get  the  boot,  that  the 
Germans  will  work  the  mine,  and  put  one  of  their  own 
men  in  charge." 

"I  take  that  bet,"  replied  Tom.  "I  am  nuts  over 
easy  money." 

It  was  only  after  his  friend  had  left  that  Tom  con 
sidered  how  strange  it  was  that  Vyvyan  should  have 
known  about  the  statement  to  the  regiment.  He  was 
quite  certain  that  he  himself  had  never  said  a  word 
about  it,  had  not  considered  it  worth  while,  and  he 


190  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

also  knew  that  the  Englishman  was  not  popular  with 
the  Uhlans. 

Still,  there  had  been  a  leak  somewhere. 

Too,  he  remembered  other  odd  circumstances  in 
which  Vyvyan  had  figured:  His  appointment  to  the 
Berlin  attacheship  by  wireless  when  the  Augsburg's 
apparatus  had  been  out  of  order;  the  fact  that  his  aunt 
had  died  at  that  convenient  time,  leaving  him  enough 
money  to  come  to  Tom's  support  when  the  litigation 
against  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  seemed  hopeless ;  the 
Baron's  dislike  of  the  Englishman,  and  his  row  with 
Colonel  Heinrich  Wedekind  on  the  same  subject. 

"Young  fellow,"  he  apostrophized  his  absent  friend, 
"I  don't  know  a  darned  thing  about  that  Chinese  stink 
pot  called  European  politics,  but  I  bet  you  know  more 
than's  good  for  you,  and  you  aren't  half  the  silly  fool 
you  try  to  make  yourself  out  at  times." 

It  was  a  rather  rueful  Tom  who,  the  next  morning, 
opened  and  read  an  indignant  cable  from  the  Hoodoos, 
signed  "Gamble,"  in  which  the  latter  complained  that 
a  party  of  German  engineers  had  suddenly  come  to 
the  mine,  had  produced  fully  authorized  papers,  had 
taken  over  the  workings,  and  had  given  him  three 
days'  notice. 

Tom  went  straight  to  the  British  Embassy  in  the 
VVilhelm  Strasse. 

He  found  his  friend  packing  his  trunk. 

"You  win,  Vyvyan,"  was  his  greeting.  "Gamble 
got  sacked.  The  Dutchmen  are  working  the  mine. 
Here  you  are,"  giving  the  other  a  bank  note  in  pay 
ment  of  the  wager. 

Vyvyan  slipped  it  into  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

"Thanks,  old  top,"  he  said  dryly,  with  a  return  to 
his  usual  inane,  slangy  drawl.  "Come  in  jolly  handy, 
what?  It'll  pay  my  fare." 


PERSONA  NON  GRATA  191 

"Going  away  for  long?" 

"Right-oh !  Don't  s'pose  I'll  ever  come  back  again 
to  Berlin." 

"What  ?"  Tom  was  astonished.  "You  mean — you 
are  leaving  for  good?" 

"Exactly.  The  Ambassador  — 'Old  Titmouse'  — 
chevied  me.  Just  as  I  got  chevied  from  Washington. 
For  frightful  incompetence.  Oh,  well  ...  I  fancy 
my  brother,  the  Duke,  will  have  to  pull  a  few  more 
wires." 

He  finished  packing,  and  shook  hands  with  Tom. 

"Sorry,"  he  said.  "I  like  you.  Well— good-by." 
Then,  suddenly  lowering  his  voice :  "And — don't  for 
get — if  ever  you  are  in  trouble,  if  ever  your  own  peo 
ple  at  the  American  Embassy  should  refuse  to  help 
you  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  Tom.  "I  remember.  I  have  to 
find  the  guy  with  the  ring.  All  right." 

He  drove  to  the  station  with  his  friend,  and  thence 
to  the  regimental  barracks. 

"Looking  blue,"  was  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede's  greet 
ing.  "Anything  wrong?" 

"Yes.  My  friend  Vyvyan  has  left  Berlin.  The 
Ambassador  chucked  him." 

"Oh,  no,  he  didn't!"  laughed  the  Baron.  "The 
German  Government  demanded  His  Lordship's  imme 
diate  recall.  His  Lordship  is  persona  non  grata  with 
His  All-Gracious  Majesty  the  Kaiser."  He  put  his 
hand  on  the  Westerner's  shoulder.  "You  see,"  he 
went  on,  "I  know.  That's  why  I  warned  you  against 
Vyvyan.  Awfully  good  for  you  that  he  has  been  sent 
away." 

"I'm  not  sure  of  that,"  mumbled  Tom  under  his 
breath. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

STORM  CLOUDS 

THE  year  drew  to  its  close.  Christmas  came  with 
snow  thudding  softly,  with  jingling  sleigh  bells,  with 
motley  gifts  packing  the  shop  windows,  with  glittering 
trees. 

Came  the  New  Year — Nineteen  Hundred  and  Four 
teen — and  the  Uhlans  of  the  Guard  celebrated  it  with 
a  Liebesmahl,  worthy  of  Lucullus,  to  which  not  only 
the  officers  of  the  other  crack  cavalry  regiment  came, 
but  even  the  Emperor  himself,  Prince  Ludwig  Karl, 
and  the  Crown  Prince. 

The  long  table  at  the  Hotel  Adlon,  where  the  feast 
was  being  given,  was  a  mass  of  crystal  and  silver, 
broken  here  and  there  by  banks  of  fern  and  violets, 
and  by  tall  gold  holders  with  miniature  pennants — 
souvenir  regimental  pennants,  each  inscribed  in  gold 
letters  with  the  name  and  date  of  some  historic  vic 
tory:  "Rossbach,"  "Lutzen,"  "Belle  Alliance;'  "Mete/9 
"Konigsgratz"  "Sedan"  "Gravelotte,"  "Leipzig''  .  .  . 
The  list  seemed  endless. 

Tom  was  at  the  far  end  of  the  table,  with  the 
younger  officers,  but  he  had  sharp  eyes  and  could  see 
the  length  of  the  room.  He  studied  the  Emperor's 
face.  Again,  as  at  that  other  time  when  he  had  seen 
him,  the  man  reminded  him  of  an  old,  weary  blood 
hound. 

Tom  shivered  a  little.  He  was  not  an  imaginative 

192 


STORM  CLOUDS  193 

man,  but  something  unpleasant  had  touched  his  soul. 
He  raised  his  glass  of  sparkling  Moselle  and  drained  it. 

The  next  moment  his  neighbor,  the  little,  rosy- 
cheeked  Ensign  Baron  von  Konigsmark,  nudged  him 
in  the  ribs. 

"Graves !     Graves !"  he  whispered. 

Tom  looked  up  from  the  depths  of  his  wine  glass. 

All  had  risen  to  their  feet.  They  stood  at  attention, 
facing  the  Emperor  who,  his  face  flushed  with  wine 
and  excitement,  had  got  up  in  his  turn. 

"Meine  H  err  en  Offiziere!"  the  Emperor  boomed. 

Then  hushed,  tense,  dramatic  silence  through  which 
the  Emperor's  words  rattled  and  cracked  and  thudded 
like  machine-gun  bullets. 

Tom  had  steadily  improved  his  knowledge  of  the 
German  language.  But  he  could  not  understand  every 
thing  the  War  Lord  was  saying. 

Yet  here  and  there  a  word,  a  whole  sentence,  stood 
out.  And  he  understood — the  words  at  least. 

As  always,  when  the  Emperor  had  been  drinking, 
the  mysticism,  the  religious  half-madness  in  his  soul, 
rose  to  the  surface.  It  blended  with  his  soldier's  soul 
and  peaked  to  a  very  terrible,  a  very  sinister  apex : 

"The  world — the  world  outside  of  Germany — is 
Babylon!"  cried  Wilhelm.  "Remember  the  words  in 
the  Bible — Babylon  is  fallen,  is  fallen,  that  great  city! 
And  again  Babylon  shall  fall  ...  To  the  touch  of 
the  German  sword  .  .  ." 

Then,  later  on: 

"I  see  the  angels  of  the  Euphrates  let  loose!  An 
gels  with  breaths  of  flame,  with  eyes  of  flame,  with 
hearts  and  souls  and  hands  of  flame!  I  see  them, 
with  their  flaming  swords  of  vengeance,  rushing  upon 
the  weak,  decadent,  Western  world  .  .  .  The  world 
that  preaches  the  ungodly,  accursed  sermon  of  free- 


194  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

dom  for  the  people  and  by  the  people !  The  angels — 
the  angels  of  vengeance — the  German  angels — descend 
and  smite  Europe  and  drown  a  third  part  of  all  her 
people  in  blood !  They  stifle  and  trample  and  kill  with 
glowing  feet  the  enemies  of  Him,  our  God,  our  old 
German  God,  which  is,  and  which  was,  and  which  is 
to  come!  The  sun  is  overcast  with  sable  blackness! 
The  stars  fall  from  the  firmament  upon  the  earth! 
Upon  the  earth  blazing  in  a  most  frightful  conflagra 
tion!  The  sea  is  blood!  The  fish  and  all  the  crea 
tures  of  the  oceans  choke  with  blood !  The  world,  for 
its  own  salvation,  must  be  absterged  by  a  lotion  of 
blood — and  it  is  our  duty,  our  shining  privilege,  our 
German  privilege  to  obey  the  voice  of  our  God,  the 
German  God!  It  is  our  right  to  smite  the  ivory 
towers  of  Babylon,  to  .  .  ." 

"What  the  devil  is  he  talking  about?"  Tom  asked 
in  an  undertone. 

"War!  War!"  The  little  Ensign's  voice  was 
hoarse  with  a  great,  unnatural  emotion.  His  china- 
blue  eyes  blazed.  His  small,  white  hands  opened  and 
shut  spasmodically. 

"Stewed !"  was  Tom's  silent  comment.  "Stewed  to 
the  gills,  the  whole  darned  lot  of  them,  including  the 
Emperor/'  and  he  succeeded  in  taking  French  leave 
and  returned  to  his  apartment. 

There  was  no  more  Liebesmahle,  no  more  jolly  mess 
gatherings,  as  the  new  year  swung  into  line.  The 
army,  from  Count  Moltke  down  to  the  last  recruit, 
passed  into  a  stage  of  feverish  work,  and  Tom  was 
kept  busy,  often  late  into  the  night,  judging  the  cav 
alry  mounts  that  came  in  endless  streams  from  Silesia, 
the  Rhine  Province,  and  East  Prussia. 

More  horses  came.  Some  from  Russia,  little  shaggy 
brutes  that  reminded  Tom  of  the  Western  cayuses; 


STORM  CLOUDS  195 

sleek-coated,  unbroken  ruffians  from  the  South  Amer 
ican  plains;  English  thoroughbreds  and  handsome, 
long-tailed  stallions  from  Turkish  studs;  squat,  bow- 
legged  Mongolian  ponies;  heavy-boned  Belgian  and 
French  mares.  All  the  world  sent  horses,  and  Tom 
was  in  his  element.  He  had  been  made  chief  remount 
officer  for  the  military  district  of  Berlin,  and  he  did 
not  mind  the  extra  work.  He  enjoyed  it  rather.  It 
was  his  old  job  of  the  Killicott,  magnified  a  thousand 
times. 

"You  see,"  he  said  to  Bertha  one  of  the  rare  eve 
nings  when  he  was  off  duty,  "it  gives  me  an  additional 
reason,  this  work,  for  sticking  to  Germany  and  the 
army." 

"What's  the  other  reason?"  asked  the  girl. 

"You.     I  won't  go  home  without  you." 

"Why  not?"  she  asked  mischievously,  well  knowing 
what  the  answer  would  be. 

And  it  came. 

"Because  life  away  from  you  isn't  worth  the  living! 
Why,  girl,  I  know  you  don't  care  for  me  .  .  ." 

"But  I  do,  Tom.     I  love  you  like  a  ..." 

"Stop  it!"  cried  Tom.  "Here's  that  'brother'  again. 
Cut  it  out.  It  makes  me  mad  clear  through.  I  want 
you  to  love  me  like  I  love  you,  the  right  way,  the  good 
way,  the  regular  flesh-and-blood  way.  I  don't  give  a 
rap  for  that  brother  and  sister  stuff.  I  want  love! 
The  sort  that  kisses  and  likes  it,  by  Gosh !" 

She  laughed. 

"I  have  always  thought  you  were  a  dear,  Tom,  and 
you  are.  I  almost  wish  I  could  kiss  you." 

"Right  here's  where  your  wish  is  going  to  be  grati 
fied,"  came  his  quick  reply,  and  he  took  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her  full  on  the  mouth. 

"Tom,  Tom!     You  mustn't  .  .  ."     She  tore  her- 


196  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

self  away  and  ran  out  of  the  room,  colliding  on  the 
threshold  with  her  grandmother. 

The  old  lady  looked  at  Tom  quizzically. 

"Ah,"  she  said  in  her  gentle,  malicious  voice,  "I  see 
that  you  are  becoming  more  Germanized  every  day. 
To  the  victor  the  spoils !" 

"You  bet  your  life !"  replied  Tom,  noways  abashed. 

<•  Meanwhile  the  gathering  excitement  that  had  struck 
such  a  dramatic  note  in  the  Emperor's  New  Year 
speech  gained  speed  and  strength  and  a  certain  threat 
ening  grimness. 

And  not  only  in  the  army. 

A  change,  at  first  subtle,  then  more  and  more  dis 
tinct,  finally  gross,  crept  into  the  public  life  of  the  cap 
ital,  even  into  the  manners  of  the  individuals.  All 
Germany  seemed  one  gigantic  masonic  lodge,  in  which 
everybody  knew  the  pass  word,  everybody  understood 
the  signs  and  portents,  with  the  exception  of  the  for 
eigners,  including  the  diplomatic  corps. 

People  still  aped  foreign  fashions.  There  were  still 
advertisements  in  the  shops  of  "Latest  Paris  Mode," 
"Latest  London,"  "Latest  New  York/'  but  an  ugly 
undercurrent  began  to  be  at  work  against  the  foreign 
ers  themselves. 

Tom  was  witness  at  a  scene  in  the  street  where  a 
German  student,  and  sober  at  that,  publicly  insulted  a 
young  English  girl  for  speaking  her  native  language. 
He  was  about  to  interfere,  but  was  immediately 
stopped  by  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede,  who  was  with  him. 

"Remember  your  uniform,"  said  the  latter. 

And  by  the  time  the  Westerner  had  torn  himself 
loose  from  his  brother  officer's  grip  and  had  mumbled 
something  succinct  about  "Damn  my  uniform!"  the 
student  had  disappeared. 


STORM  CLOUDS  197 

Another  change  came  into  the  wording  of  the  res 
taurant  menus.  French  was  barred  from  them,  by 
unofficial,  but  forceful,  imperial  edict,  and  this  edict, 
ridiculous,  petty,  was  obeyed  by  the  people  with  abso 
lute,  granite,  Teutonic  seriousness. 

Tom  laughed. 

"Say,"  he  confided  to  Bertha,  "I've  always  been  as 
fond  of  spaghetti  as  a  Wop.  But  when  it  comes  to 
calling  them  Hohlmehlnudeln,  I  pass.  I  wonder  if 
they  are  going  to  Prussianize  the  word  'steak/  ' 

But  it. was  not  only  in  mean,  small  details  that 
Berlin  was  changing.  Almost  it  seemed  as  if  beneath 
the  clean  pavement  of  the  streets  a  gigantic,  barbaric 
soul  was  beating  against  the  fetters  of  the  West,  of 
civilization,  of  humanity,  as  if  this  soul  was  about  to 
break  the  fetters,  to  push  outwards  into  the  world  with 
a  crackle  of  forged  steel,  to  flash  its  sinister  message 
to  the  far  lands. 

Strength !     Efficiency !     The  Iron  Fist ! 

These  were  the  shibboleths  of  the  hour;  and  ever, 
more  and  more,  their  passion,  their  challenge,  their 
brutal,  satanic  leer,  grew  and  bloated. 

Months  later,  when  the  armed  citizenry  of  France 
and  Britain  were  battling  heroically  against  the  in 
vader,  certain  of  the  scenes  which  at  the  time  he  had 
not  understood,  came  back  to  Tom,  like  fragments  of 
evil  dream  that  trouble  the  sun  peace  of  waking  day. 

He  remembered,  for  instance,  one  definite  picture. 

A  crisp  winter  day ;  the  wind  rustling  the  bare  trees 
of  Unter  Den  Linden;  a  crowd  of  students  leaving  the 
Pschorr  Brau  Restaurant  for  the  University;  brokers 
hurrying  on  their  way  to  'Change ;  a  file  of  Grenadiers 
of  the  Guard  goosestepping  down  the  street  to  relieve 
the  watch  on  the  Pariser  Platz;  a  few  late  tourists 
looking  into  the  shop  windows  or  issuing  from  the 


198  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

swinging  portals  of  Hamburg-America  or  North 
German  Lloyd ;  a  chilly,  orange  sun  flaming  poignantly. 

Tom  recalled  it  all  vividly.  Also  the  man  he  saw 
swinging  around  the  corner  of  the  Wilhelm  Strasse : 
A  certain  Mr.  Trumbull,  an  American  newspaper  cor 
respondent,  who  had  a  rare  knack  for  foreign  political 
intrigues  and  who  would  have  made  supremely  good 
but  for  a  thirst  that  never  left  him. 

Tom  had  met  him  several  months  earlier,  before  he 
had  joined  the  army. 

"Hullo,  Trumbull!"  he  greeted  him,  hand  out 
stretched. 

Trumbull  was  the  worse  for  drink,  but  he  steadied 
himself. 

"Tom,"  he  said,  picking  his  words  with  alcoholic 
precision,  "I'd  rather  be  damned  than  shake  hands  with 
you." 

"Why?"  laughed  Tom.  "What's  the  matter ?  Isn't 
my  hand  clean  enough  for  you?" 

"It  is  not!"  hiccoughed  the  other.  "It  is  spotted 
with  blood.  I  know — even  if  those  silly  fools  of  dip 
lomats  are  as  blind  as  new-born  puppies;"  and  he  stag 
gered  down  the  street  while  the  Westerner  looked  after 
him,  shaking  his  head,  and  muttering  something 
about  D.  T.'s. 

Then  there  was  another  memory.  A  Sunday  din 
ner  at  the  house  of  the  little  professor  with  the  tiny 
red  ears  whom  he  had  met  at  the  Colonel's  and  whose 
name  was  Kuno  Sachs. 

Dinner  was  over.  Tom  had  been  talking  to  Bertha. 
She  had  excused  herself  to  say  a  few  words  to  her 
hostess.  Tom  saw  a  group  of  the  younger  officers 
gathered  about  the  professor  in  the  latter's  smoking- 
room. 

Sachs  was  holding  forth,  in  a  high,  shrill  voice,  his 


STORM  CLOUDS  199 

little,  wrinkled  fists  shooting  up  and  down  emphasiz 
ing  his  points. 

"Nietzsche  has  said  it,"  he  shrieked.  "It  is  the 
business  of  the  very  few  to  be  independent;  it  is  a 
privilege  of  the  strong.  And  whoever  attempts  it, 
strong  beyond  measure,  daring  beyond  measure,  must 
see  it  through  to  the  end.  He  must  not  weaken.  He 
must  not  listen  to  the  cries  and  threats  and  accusations 
of  the  others,  the  weak,  the  useless,  the  impotent. 
Strength!  Riicksichtslosigkeit!  That  is  it.  Women 
and  children?  They,  too,  are  potentially  danger 
ous!  They,  too,  must  be  hurled  to  the  oblivion  of 
death  .  .  ." 

"Say,"  laughed  Tom,  who  had  joined  the  group, 
"aren't  you  the  blood-thirsty  little  wretch?" 

And,  at  once,  there  was  silence.  At  once  the  con 
versation  was  changed.  Sachs  commenced  talking  fe 
verishly  about  the  palaeolithic  relics  of  ancieirt  Egypt; 
Colonel  Wedekind  about  a  horse  which  he  had  bought 
the  other  day;  the  little  Ensign  von  Konigsmark  told 
a  joke  which  he  should  have  been  too  young  to  under 
stand  ;  and  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede  mentioned  the  new 
ballet  at  the  Opera, 

Tom  was  an  interloper.  But  at  the  time  he  did  not 
exactly  realize  it. 

Then  there  were  the  new  lectures  at  War  School. 

"Know  anything  about  French?"  Tom  was  asked 
one  day  by  Major  von  Tronchin  of  the  General  Staff. 

"No !     Not  a  word,  except  Out!" 

"Not  enough.  You  will  attend  French  lessons 
every  afternoon  from  three  to  six." 

"All  right,"  sighed  Tom,  who  had  found  out  that 
it  was  useless  to  argue  when  superior  officers  adopted 
that  tone,  "I'll  make  a  try  at  the  parley-voo." 

He  did. 


200  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

But  it  puzzled  him  that  he  was  not  put  through  a 
regular  course  in  grammar.  All  his  instructors  ex 
pected  of  him  was  to  memorize,  like  a  parrot,  cer 
tain  lengthy  French  paragraphs  and  their  German 
equivalent.  These  paragraphs  were  on  printed  forms, 
several  dozen  of  them,  and  the  lot  was  collected  in  a 
book,  printed  by  the  General  Staff  and  marked  "Very 
Confidential,"  and  Tom  learned  to  the  best  of  his 
ability. 

Here  are  two  or  three  of  the  French  paragraphs, 
with  their  German  translations,  which  he  was  taught : 

"A  fine  of  600,000  marks,  in  consequence  of  an  attempt  made 

by  to  assassinate  a  German  soldier,  is  imposed  on  the 

town  of  O .  By  order  of  . 

"Efforts  have  been  made,  without  result,  to  obtain  the  with 
drawal  of  the  fine.  The  term  fixed  for  payment  expires  to 
morrow,  Saturday,  December  17,  at  noon.  Bank-notes,  cash,  or 
silver  plate  will  be  accepted." 

"I  have  to  acknowledge  receipt  of  your  letter  dated  the  7th  of 
this  month,  in  which  you  bring  to  my  notice  the  great  difficulty 
which  you  expect  to  meet  in  levying  the  contributions.  I  can 
but  regret  the  explanations  which  you  have  thought  proper  to 
give  me  on  the  subject;  the  order  in  question,  which  emanates 
from  my  government,  is  so  clear  and  precise,  and  the  instruc 
tions  which  I  have  received  in  the  matter  are,  so  categorical, 

that  if  the  sum  due  by  the  town  of  R is  not  paid  the 

town  will  be  burned  down  without  pity." 

"On  account  of  the  destruction  of  the  bridge  of  F- 


order :  The  district  shall  pay  a  special  contribution  of  10,000,000 
francs  by  way  of  amends.  This  is  brought  to  the  notice  of  the 
public,  who  are  informed  that  the  method  of  assessment  will  be 
announced  later  and  that  the  payment  of  the  said  sum  will  be 

enforced  with   the   utmost  severity.     The  village   of   F 

will  be  destroyed  immediately  by  fire,  with  the  exception  of  cer 
tain  buildings  occupied  for  the  use  of  the  troops."  l 

i  See  "MILITARY  INSTRUCTOR  FOR  USE  IN  THE  EN 
EMY'S  COUNTRY,"  printed  by  the  German  General  Staff  in 
1906.  With  thanks  to  Mr.  Bruce  Barton,  editor  of  Every  Week. 


STORM  CLOUDS  201 

"Say,"  asked  Tom  of  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede  one 
night  in  January,  showing  him  one  of  the  above  blanks, 
"what's  it  all  about?  Are  you  fellows  preparing  a 
Pancho  Villa  raid  on  a  gigantic  scale?" 

"No,  no.  But  you  know  the  Kaiser's  maxim :  'In 
time  of  peace  prepare  for  war/  By  the  way" — the 
Baron  added  suddenly — "if  you  are  tired  of  the  Ger 
man  army,  I  fancy  I  can  ..." 

"Me?  Tired?  Not  on  your  life.  I'll  stick  right 
with  you." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Positive." 

"You  kno\v  what  it  means?"  went  on  the  Baron. 

"You  bet  your  life.  I'm  going  to  stay  with  you 
until  .  .  ."  He  was  going  to  say  until  Bertha  re 
turned  to  America,  but  checked  himself.  "Yep,"  he 
went  on,  "I'm  going  to  stick  all  right." 

The  Baron  did  not  reply. 

And,  a  few  days  later,  tragedy  stalked  into  the 
even  path  of  Tom's  life. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE   INSULT 

IN  the  morning  the  new  battle  standard  of  the 
Uhlans  had  been  solemnly  presented  by  the  Emperor, 
accepted  in  the  name  of  the  regiment  by  the  assem 
bled  officers  in  parade  uniforms,  after  which  special 
service,  Doctor  Emanuel  Dryander  in  the  pulpit,  had 
been  held  at  the  Cathedral,  across  from  the  Schloss. 

In  the  evening  Prince  Ludwig  Karl,  the  honorary 
Chief  of  the  regiment,  was  giving  a  supper  to  finish 
the  celebration  in  his  palace  near  Potsdam  that  over 
looked  the  placid  surface  of  the  Havel  Lake. 

Tom  had  been  officer  of  the  day  at  stables  and  so 
it  was  late,  nearly  eleven  o'clock,  when  he  arrived. 
He  walked  briskly  from  the  railway  station  to  the 
palace  that  towered  to  the  night  sky  in  a  baroque, 
hectic  mass  of  Prussian  Eighteenth  Century  rococo 
with  here  and  there  a  reminder  of  the  grim  old  me 
diaeval  stronghold  from  which  it  had  emerged,  which 
it  had  superseded — some  huge,  barred  windows,  look 
ing  incongruously  frowning;  an  immense  arch  gaping 
across  the  blotched  shadows  of  the  inner  courtyard; 
a  mean,  starved  chapel,  elbowing  a  great  marble  stable, 
and  giving  the  impression  of  a  huddled  beggar;  and, 
of  course,  the  little  black  and  white  striped  wooden 
houses  of  the  sentinels. 

Tom  surrendered  helmet  and  overcoat  and  entered 
the  great  ballroom,  where  the  celebration  was  being 
held. 

202 


THE  INSULT  203 

The  room,  its  walls  covered  with  paintings  stolen 
by  the  Prince's  father  from  French  chateaux  in  the 
war  of  Eighteen  Hundred  and  Seventy,  its  ceiling 
painted  by  Tiepolo,  stolen  during  the  same  war  and 
transported  bodily,  was  immense;  but  not  only  the 
officers  of  the  Uhlans,  but  also  those  of  the  other 
crack  regiments  stationed  in  Berlin,  Potsdam,  Span- 
dau,  and  Kopenick,  besides  a  great  many  high  Govern 
ment  officials,  had  been  invited,  and  so  the  room  was 
well  filled. 

Supper  was  over  but  for  an  immense  buffet  run 
ning  the  length  of  one  wall,  where  liveried  servants 
ladled  out  the  famous  moselle  and  brandy  punch  of 
the  Uhlans.  The  guests  had  split  into  numerous  lit 
tle  groups,  and  Tom,  with  a  smile  and  a  nod  here  and 
there  to  friends  and  acquaintances,  joined  a  knot  of 
officers  that  had  gathered  around  Colonel  Heinrich 
Wedekind. 

They  had  all  been  drinking  heavily  and  they  greeted 
Tom  boisterously. 

The  Westerner  shook  hands  and  was  about  to  raise 
the  goblet  of  punch  that  little  Ensign  von  Konigs- 
mark  had  brought  him  when  a  hand  snatched  the 
glass  away  and  sent  it  crashing  on  the  marble  mosaic 
floor. 

"You  can't  drink  with  us!"  said  a  raucous  voice. 

Tom  turned. 

"What  the  devil  .  .  .   ?" 

He  looked.  The  man  who  had  snatched  the  glass? 
away,  who  had  spoken  the  words,  was  Baron  Horst 
von  Gotz-Wrede. 

Tom  was  slow  at  taking  offense.  His  first  thought 
was  that  the  man  must  have  been  drinking.  Then  he 
reconsidered. 

For  the  Baron  was  perfectly  sober.     In  fact,  had 


204  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

only  just  come  in.  The  uhlanka  was  still  on  his  head, 
the  silver  gray  cape,  lined  with  crimson,  across  his 
shoulders.  The  insult  had  been  deliberate — and  for 
a  cause. 

The  little  Ensign  had  turned  very  pale.  He  liked 
the  American. 

"Baron — "  he  stammered  in  his  high,  childish  voice, 
"Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede  .  .  ." 

Then  the  Colonel  interfered : 

"Gentlemen!  I  beg  of  you!  Please — no  private 
quarrel  here,  in  the  Prince's  palace  .  .  ." 

Already  some  of  the  other  groups  had  heard  and 
seen.  They  rushed  over  to  find  out  what  had  hap 
pened.  Excited  voices  asked  questions,  to  be  an 
swered  by  other  questions. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

'Was  ist  denn  los?" 

"Aber,  meine  H  err  en,"  from  a  white  mustached  old 
Colonel,  "was  fdllt  Ihnen  denn  ein?" 

Tom  was  the  quietest  of  them  all.  He  smiled  at 
the  little  Ensign. 

"Thanks,  young  fellow,"  he  whispered.  "You 
aren't  such  a  bad  little  chap."  Then,  to  the  Baron, 
in  an  even  voice :  "Go  ahead  and  explain — if  you 
can !" 

There  was  hushed  silence,  the  tense  silence  of  ex 
pectancy,  of  waiting  for  something. 

Then  the  Baron's  words,  harsh,  sibilant,  snarling  : 

"Herr  Leutnant  Graves!  You  will  remember  that 
some  time  ago  the  German  Government  subsidized  a 
line  of  fast  steamships  to  run  direct  from  Hamburg 
to  Tacoma,  coaling  at  Singapore  and  Hongkong." 

"Sure,"  replied  Tom,  puzzled.  "What's  that  to  me 
to  you?" 


THE  INSULT  205 

"The  very  first  ship  of  this  line,  on  its  return  trip 
to  Hamburg,  put  into  Hongkong  to  coal." 

"Well?" 

"The  British  authorities  there,  through  some  legal 
chicanery,  have  held  up  the  ship.  They  refuse  to  give 
clearance  papers.  And — bei  Gott! — it's  the  work  of 
your  English  friend,  Lord  Vyvyan,  and  your  own 
work,  you  damned  Yankee  traitor !" 

There  was  another  silence.  The  little  Ensign 
clutched  Tom's  arm  convulsively,  but  the  latter  shook 
him  off.  He  stepped  straight  up  to  the  Baron. 

"Herr  Hauptmann!"  he  drawled,  icily,  "I  don't 
know  what  the  devil  you're  talking  about.  I  have 
nothing  to  do  with  your  subsidized  steamships  nor 
with  the  harbor  authorities  of  Hongkong.  Also  I 
don't  give  a  damn  about  your  calling  me  a  Yankee. 
But  I  object  to  being  called  a  traitor,  see?" 

And  his  fist  suddenly  clenched  and  crashed  straight 
between  the  Baron's  eyes,  sending  him  reeling  to  the 
floor. 

The  next  moment  pandemonium  broke  loose. 

Voices.  Questions.  Exclamations.  Hands  gestic 
ulating.  More  officers  running  up  and  closing  in. 
More  questions.  The  Prince  himself  asking  excitedly 
what  had  happened. 

Only  the  little  Ensign  kept  his  equanimity.  He 
took  the  Westerner  by  the  arm  and  rushed  him  to 
the  door. 

"Go  to  your  quarters,  Graves,"  he  said. 

"What  for?  I  won't  run  away.  If  he  wants  some 
thing  from  me  ..." 

"Yes,  yes.  That's  just  it !  You  struck  him !  You 
gave  him  a  deadly  insult !  You  must  go  to  your  quar 
ters  at  once !  You  must  wait  for  his  seconds !" 


206  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Oh?"  smiled  Tom.     "A  duel  is  it?" 
"NatiirlickF 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  street. 

"I  say,  Graves,"  stammered  von  Konigsmark. 
"You  know— I  like  you"— he  blushed  like  a  girl— 
"may  I  be  your  .  .  ." 

"My  second  ?     You  bet  your  life,  kid !" 

And  he  shook  the  young  ensign's  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE   DUEL 

THE  little  Ensign,  Baron  von  Konigsmarlc,  though" 
he  had  only  been  gazetted  a  few  months  earlier,  proved 
to  Tom  as  the  Stadtbahnsug,  the  suburban  train,  rat 
tled  through  the  night  towards  the  Friedrichstrasse 
depot,  that  he  was  very  familiar  with  duels  and  their 
etiquette. 

"Yes,"  he  replied  to  the  Westerner's  amused  ques 
tions,  "at  the  Cadets  School  I  was  principal  and  sec 
ond  at  several  affairs  of  honor  .  .  ." 

"My  sainted  grandmother!"  cried  Tom.  "You 
don't  mean  to  say  that  you  little  snut-nosed  brats  at 
school  .  .  ." 

"We  already  wore  the  King's  Coat!"  the  Ensign 
cut  in  a  little  stiffly,  while  Tom  murmured  weakly: 
"Holy  Mackerel!" 

"We  must  have  another  second,"  continued  von 
Konigsmark  gravely,  after  the  other's  mirth  had 
subsided.  "Some  friend  of  yours,  a  countryman  by 
preference.  Whom  would  you  suggest,  sir?" 

"Well.     Let's  see." 

Tom  scratched  his  head.  Quite  suddenly  his  lack  of 
real  friends,  now  that  Vyvyan  was  gone,  struck  him 
very  forcibly.  McCaffrey?  Impossible.  And  so 
were  the  American  and  English  jockeys  who  fore 
gathered  at  the  "Gross  Berlin  American  Bar." 

A  German,  then !  But — who?  He  shook  his  head. 

207 


208  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Gosh!  he  said  to  himself,  he  had  no  friend  amongst 
the  Germans,  not  a  single  one  with  the  possible  ex 
ception  of  the  little  Ensign,  now  it  had  come  to  a 
show-down. 

By  this  time  the  train  had  pulled  into  the  station, 
and  Tom  had  an  idea. 

"I'll  get  Poole,"  he  said,  "our  web-foot  Oregonian 
Vice-Consul.  Won't  he  be  surprised?  Oh,  boy!" 
and  he  went  to  the  station  telephone  booth  and 
startled  his  countryman  from  sleep. 

But  it  appeared  that  the  latter  was  not  only  sur 
prised,  but  also  indignant. 

"What?"  came  his  voice  across  the  wire  after  Tom 
had  explained  what  he  wanted  of  him.  "I — to  be 
your  second?  Preposterous!  Absolutely  preposter 
ous  !  Remember  that  I  am  in  the  service  of  the 
American  Government!  Why,  man,  the  Big  Boss 
back  in  Washington  would  have  my  scalp!" 

Poole  rang  off  while  Tom  returned  to  the  waiting- 
room. 

"What  luck?"  queried  the  Ensign. 
"Nothing  doing." 

Tom  felt  dejected  and  just  a  little  homesick.  He 
turned  to  go  when,  coming  from  the  station  res 
taurant,  he  saw  Trumbull,  the  American  newspaper 
correspondent  who,  recently,  had  refused  to  shake 
hands  with  him. 

The  man  was  for  passing  by  without  a  word,  but 
Tom  stopped  him,  explained  his  predicament  in  a  few 
words,  and  Trumbull  broke  into  laughter. 

"Sure,"  he  said,  "I  am  your  man.  I'll  be  there  with 
bells.  What's  the  next  thing  on  the  bill  o'  fare?"  he 
asked  the  Ensign. 

The  latter  explained  that  he  would  telephone  out 
to  the  Prince's  palace,  see  if  the  Baron  was  still  there, 


THE  DUEL  209 

ask  who  his  seconds  were,  and  arrange  for  an  im 
mediate  meeting  between  them,  Mr.  Trumbull,  and 
himself,  at  his  apartment. 

"Pardon  me  a  moment,  gentlemen."  He  entered 
the  booth. 

"Say,"  whispered  Tom  to  the  newspaper  man, 
"isn't  he  the  little  fighting  cock?" 

But  Trumbull  did  not  smile.  Very  soberly  he  shook 
the  Westerner's  hand. 

"Graves,"  he  said,  "I  guess  I  was  wrong  the  other 
day.  Otherwise  you  wouldn't  .  .  .  Never  mind. 
But  take  my  tip.  Shoot  to  kill.  At  the  very  least, 
put  him  out  of  action  first  pop." 

"No,  no!     What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"If  you  don't,  he  will." 

Tom  grinned.     "I'll  just  wing  his  gun  arm." 

"I'm  afraid  that  won't  be  enough.  Get  him  through 
the  lung — and  quick." 

He  had  spoken  in  such  a  strangely  tense  manner 
that  Tom  looked  up  curiously.  He  had  seen  gun 
fights  in  the  West,  and  he  knew  that  odd  things  are 
liable  to  happen  when  it  goes  for  the  life  of  a  man. 

He  cleared  his  throat. 

"You  mean  .  .  ." 

"I  mean  that  you  are  up  against  a  stacked  deck!" 
said  Trumbull  brutally. 

"You're  crazy,  old  man.  Gotz-Wrede  is  a  gentle 
man  .  .  ." 

"I  guess  so.  But  he's  a  German  gentleman,  with 
German  standards  as  to  what  it  means  to  be  a  gentle 
man.  And  in  Germany  the  first  rule  for  a  gentleman 
is  to  obey  the  orders  of  his  superior  officers." 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?" 

"Ask  me  no  questions  and  I'll  tell  you  no  lies.  I 
don't  know  you  so  very  well  after  all,  Graves.  I  am 


210  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

only  helping  you  because  you  were  an  American — 
once  .  .  ." 

"I  am  still !"  cried  Tom  heatedly. 

Trumbull  waived  the  point. 

"Never  mind.  I  just  ask  you  to  take  my  tip,  that's 
all." 

"But  why?     For  God's  sake,  why?" 

Trumbull  gave  a  cracked  laugh. 

"Never  mind,"  he  said.  "I'm  only  a  hopeless 
drunkard  with  a  fixed  idea.  They'll  tell  you  so  in 
Park  Row — in  Washington  too,  for  that  matter.  I'm 
just  plain  bughoused  when  it  comes  to  Germany  and 
German  politics.  Don't  you  believe  a  word  I  say. 
But" — he  gripped  Tom's  shoulder — "shoot  straight!" 

A  moment  later  the  Ensign  came  out  of  the  tele 
phone  booth  and  reported  with  a  great  deal  of  busi 
ness-like  precision  and,  too,  a  certain  well-pleased  sat 
isfaction  that  he  had  arranged  the  meeting  with  the 
Baron's  seconds  and  that  they  must  hurry. 

"See  you  as  soon  as  we  get  through,"  he  said  to 
Tom.  "I  suppose  it  will  be  pistols.  So  you  had  bet 
ter  eat  a  good  breakfast  and  top  it  off  with  a  tumbler 
of  brandy  neat.  Beer,  preferably  English  stout,  is 
all  right  for  sabers,  but  when  it  comes  to  the  little  old 
pop  guns  brandy  is  the  ticket,  Herr  Kamerad." 

He  saluted  and  was  off,  together  with  Trumbull, 
while  the  Westerner  drove  home  through  the  waking 
streets  of  Berlin. 

Krauss  met  him  at  the  door. 

One  look  at  him  convinced  Tom  that,  somehow,  the 
man  knew  what  had  happened — perhaps,  he  thought 
a  moment  later,  what  was  going  to  happen.  For  the 
valet's  face  was  gray,  haggard,  deeply  lined.  His 
eyes  stared  anxiously,  as  at  some  terrible  specter  of 
night,  and  Tom  smiled  rather  bitterly. 


THE  DUEL  211 

Everything  suddenly  seemed  very  clear — and  he  had 
been  all  sorts  of  a  cursed  fool. 

Warning?  Why,  he  had  been  warned  right  and 
left,  but  he  had  not  even  taken  the  trouble  to  look 
more  closely,  to  understand. 

The  Web! 

Who  was  it  had  spoken  about  the  Web? 

Oh,  yes !     Lord  Vyvyan — to  be  sure ! 

And  other  people,  too.  Martin  Wedekind.  And 
old  Mrs.  Wedekind,  Martin's  mother.  And  Trumbull 
— and  .  .  . 

"Well,  Krauss,"  he  asked  finally,  "what's  wrong?" 

Krauss  stared  at  him.  He  tried  to  speak.  Could 
not.  Rather,  dared  not. 

He  was  a  tool,  a  tiny  wheel  in  the  great,  cold 
blooded,  crunching  machinery  of  the  German  Secret 
Service.  They  had  clouted  and  stamped  him  into  a 
number,  a  drab,  gray,  monotonous  pattern,  cuttingly 
efficient,  soulless,  hard. 

But  .  .  . 

Suddenly  he  spoke,  very  rapidly,  as  if  afraid 
that  thought,  deliberation,  might  stop  his  flow  of 
words;  and  he  blushed  very  much  as  the  Ensign  had 
blushed. 

"Leave  Germany,  Lieutenant,"  he  cried.  "I  shall 
help  you.  Please  leave  ..." 

Tom  shook  his  head.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  "ser 
vant's  shoulder. 

"Krauss,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  tense  voice,  "I  thank 
you.  You  aren't  so  bad.  But — you  cannot  serve  two 
masters.  And  your  master  is  .  .  ." 

"You!" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it !  Your  master  is  Germany.  I  know 
— now.  It  took  me  a  long  time  to  see.  I  guess  I 
am  very  much  of  a  damned  fool.  But  I  know — now. 


212  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Just  you  brew  me  a  cup  of  coffee  and,"  he  remem 
bered  the  Ensign's  advice,  "bring  the  brandy  bottle." 

At  seven  o'clock  his  seconds  returned,  looking  very 
grave. 

"Stiff  conditions,"  said  Trumbull. 

"Of  course!"  Von  Konigsmark  inclined  his  head. 
"It  was  a  deadly  insult,  you  know." 

"Well,"  said  Tom,  "don't  scare  me  to  death.  What 
is  it?  Bricks  at  a  hundred  yards?" 

"Six  shooters  at  twenty  paces,"  rejoined  Trumbull, 
"continuous  fire  after  the  umpire  has  counted  Three 
until  one  of  you  two  is  dead  or  completely  disabled. 
Simultaneous  firing.  I  insisted  on  that.  They  were 
going  to  give  their  man  first  shot — said  he  was  the 
insulted  party.  But  I  held  out." 

Tom  smiled. 

"Thanks,"  he  replied.  "I  guess  I'll  wing  me  my 
little  bird.  It's  a  cinch." 

Trumbull  was  excited.  "Don't  you  be  so  all-fired 
sure.  Remember  what  I  told  you  .  .  ."  But  he  did 
not  say  any  more,  for  Tom,  with  a  warning  cough, 
had  indicated  the  Ensign,  who  had  stepped  to  the 
window. 

The  latter  was  very  nervous.  Every  few  seconds 
he  looked  at  his  watch. 

"We  meet  at  nine  o'clock  in  a  little  clearing  in  the 
Griinewald  just  the  other  side  of  St.  Hubertus,"  he 
said.  "We'll  have  to  leave  here  soon.  If  there,  are 
any  letters  you  want  to  write  .  .  ." 

"No,  no,  not  to  a  soul,"  replied  Tom.  Then  he 
reconsidered. 

He  did  not  believe  in  heroics.  Nor  in  sugary  senti 
mentalities.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  too  natural, 
too  simple  a  man  to  be  afraid  of  his  emotions.  He 
loved  Bertha.  There  was  the  one  great,  all-important 


THE  DUEL  213 

fact  in  his  life;  and  it  made  no  difference  that  the 
girl  did  not  return  his  love. 

Should  he  call  on  her? 

Impossible.  It  was  too  early  in  the  morning.  Be 
sides,  he  hardly  had  the  time. 

But  he  must  hear  her  voice,  just  once,  before  the 
duel. 

"Pardon  me,  gentlemen,"  he  said  to  the  two  sec 
onds.  "Would  you  mind  stepping  in  the  other  room 
for  a  minute?  I  want  to  telephone  to  somebody." 

A  moment  later  Central  had  connected  him  with 
the  Colonel's  house. 

"I  would  like  to  speak  to  Miss  Bertha,"  he  told 
the  servant  who  answered  the  call. 

He  waited.     Then: 

"Hello,  Bertha!     Is  that  you?" 

"No!"  boomed  a  harsh  voice  across  the  wire. 
"This  is  Colonel  Wedekind  speaking.  I  forbid  you 
to  talk  to  my  niece.  You  have  disgraced  the  regi 
ment,  sir.  You  .  .  ." 

Tom  gave  a  bitter  laugh. 

"Say,"  he  shouted  back,  "cut  out  the  grand-stand 
play!  I  get  you  all  right,  all  right!  Efficiency! 
That's  what  you  call  it,  eh?  But,  my  God,  I  have 
an  idea  that  even  German  efficiency  ought  to  back 
water  when  it  comes  to  a  little  slip  of  a  girl!  Ring 
off?  Sure  I'll  ring  off,  you  damned  old  son  of 
a  ..." 

He  slammed  down  the  receiver,  took  a  deep  breath, 
and  called  to  the  other  room. 

"Come  on,  fellows.  I'm  all  ready.  Let's  get 
through  with  the  slaughter." 

They  drove  down  the  Kurfurstendamm,  across  the 
Halensee  Bridge,  through  the  latter  suburb,  and  out 


214  [THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Into  the  snow-clad  solitudes  of  the  Griinewald.  TKe 
woods  were  silent  and  crisp,  sweet  with  running  shad 
ows  and  the  slanting  beams  of  the  chilly  winter  sun. 
Far  on  the  edge  of  the  horizon  a  flush  of  gold  and 
amethyst  was  fading  into  pale  blue. 

They  stopped  at  St.  Hubertus.  The  old-fashioned 
road-house  was  still  asleep,  writh  here  and  there,  on 
the  upper  floor,  a  yellow  light  flickering  and  leering 
behind  silken  window  blinds.  A  circular  driveway 
led  up  to  the  massive,  cast-iron  gates  of  the  little  pine 
park  which  surrounded  the  house.  Beyond  it  was  the 
garage. 

"Wait  for  us,"  said  the  Ensign  to  the  driver. 
"We'll  be  back  after  a  while." 

He  walked  ahead,  the  other  two  following,  Trum- 
bull  talking  m  an  undertone  to  his  countryman. 

The  Westerner  did  not  reply.  He  hardly  listened. 
His  thoughts  were  of  home.  Back  there,  twenty  miles 
the  other  side  of  the  Killicott,  was  just  such  a  pine 
forest  as  this  dne,  with  just  the  same  cool  peace  and 
quiet.  He  remembered  a  day,  two  years  ago,  when 
he  had  ridden  through  it  by  the  side  of  Bertha.  He 
remembered  how  still  it  had  been — he  could  have  heard 
the  breathing  of  a  bird,  the  dropping  of  a  loosened 
pine  needle. 

And  the  same  chilly,  distant  sun  in  a  haze  c^  gold 
and  silver,  and  its  fitful  rays  weaving  checkered  pat 
terns  through  the  lanky  trees. 

"Here  we  are,  gentlemen,"  came  the  Ensign's  voice, 
and  Tom  looked  up. 

They  had  arrived  at  the  clearing.  At  the  farther 
end  was  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede,  smiling,  debonair, 
talking  nonchalantly  to  his  seconds — the  Hussar,  and 
another  young  captain  of  cavalry  whom  ^Tom  did  not 


THE  DUEL  215 

know.  A  little  to  one  side  was  the  umpire,  Major 
Wernigerode,  speaking  with  the  surgeon  who  was  sit 
ting  on  a  camp-stool,  arranging  his  instruments  very 
much  with  the  mien  of  a  butcher. 

The  seconds  met,  the  umpire  presiding.  All  the 
details  were  quickly  arranged.  The  distance  was 
marked,  the  six  shooters  inspected  and  accepted,  the 
two  duelists  placed  facing  each  other. 

"Meine  H  err  en"  said  the  Major  in  a  loud  voice, 
"I  believe  you  understand  the  conditions.  Fire  at  the 
word  Three.  Not  before.  Keep  on  firing  until  all 
barrels  are  emptied  or  until  death  or  disablement. 
Breast  to  breast.  Neither  budging,  swerving,  reced 
ing,  nor  advancing  is  permitted." 

He  stepped  to  one  side,  joining  the  doctor  and  the 
seconds. 

"One!"     He  counted. 

'Two  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  roaring  detonation,  a  sheet  of  flame, 
immediately  echoed  by  another,  double  intonation,  by 
two  sheets  of  flame  that  followed  each  other  so  quickly 
that  they  seemed  to  be  one. 

The  Baron  had  fired  first,  at  the  signal  Two!  De 
liberately  !  Shooting  on  a  foul !  Shooting  to  kill — to 
murder,  rather ! 

But  Tom's  eyes,  his  ears,  his  brain,  his  nerves,  his 
hand,  had  acted  simultaneously.  He  had  swerved, 
dropped  to  the  ground.  He  had  fired — fired  again, 
sure  of  his  aim. 

He  was  unwounded.  But  the  Baron  lay  crumpled 
up,  his  blood  staining  the  snow. 

It  had  all  happened  in  the  fraction  of  a  second.  At 
once  there  was  excitement,  cries,  shouts.  The  Um 
pire,  the  seconds,  the  doctor  came  rushing  up. 


216  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Foul!  Foul!"  cried  the  Hussar,  threatening  the 
Westerner  with  the  Baron's  pistol,  which  he  had 
picked  up. 

The  young  Ensign  knocked  it  aside. 

"Your  own  man  shot  foul!"  he  replied  feverishly. 
"He  shot  first  ...  at  the  word  Two.  I  saw  it. 
Didn't  he,  Major?  I  appeal  to  you,  Major!" 

Trumbull  gave  a  strange,  cracked  chuckle.  "You 
just  bet  he  shot  foul.  There's  no  discussing  that 
point — at  least" — his  voice  rose  challenging!^ — "if 
these  gentlemen  speak  the  truth!  If  their  uniform 
allows  them  to  speak  the  truth !" 

"Mein  Herri"  yelled  the  Hussar. 

"Dry  up,"  replied  Trumbull.  "You  can't  threaten 
nie  worth  a  whoop  in  hell.  I  am  not  afraid  of  you, 
you  crimson-coated  jackanapes  ..." 

"Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  please!"  implored  the  Um 
pire.  "Never  mind.  Don't  you  see  ?"  pointing  at  the 
doctor,  who  was  busying  himself  over  the  Baron's 
prostrate,  unconscious  form. 

The  surgeon  looked  up,  with  supreme  professional 
calm. 

"He  isn't  dead,"  he  said. 

Tom  had  not  spoken  a  word.     Now  he  laughed. 

"Didn't  think  he  would  be,"  he  rejoined.  "I  know 
I  should  have  killed  him,  but,  somehow,  I  couldn't 
do  it.  Just  a  couple  of  flesh  wounds,  eh,  doctor?" 

"Yes.     You  got  him  .  .  ." 

"I  know,"  grinned  Tom.  "I  got  him  through  both 
wrists.  That's  what  I  aimed  at.  Sure!" 

He  turned  to  the  Ensign. 

"Well,"  he  went  on,  "this  is  my  first  affair  of — 
what  d'you  call  it?" 

"Honor!" 

"Hm!"     Tom    scratched    his    head.     "Affair    of 


THE  DUEL  217 

honor.  What  the  devil  would  you  say  was  an  affair 
of  dishonor?  Never  mind.  But  I  don't  know  the 
ropes.  Put  me  wise.  What  is  the  next  thing  to  do  ?" 

"Go  home.  Wait  until  you  hear  from  the  Colonel," 
replied  the  Ensign. 

"All  right.  Home  it  is."  He  took  his  seconds' 
arms.  "Let's  get  back  and  have  a  bite  of  breakfast." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE    NOOSE   IN    THE   WEB 

WHEN,  around  noon,  Krauss  announced  Colonel 
Heinrich  Wedekind  Tom  Graves  looked  forward  to 
an  acrimonious  scene,  and  was  therefore  surprised,  in 
a  way  relieved,  when  the  officer,  who  was  in  full 
uniform,  the  uhlanka  on  his  head,  saber  trailing,  dec 
orations  blazing  on  his  breast,  the  silver  sash  of  for 
mal  occasions  running  from  shoulder  to  waist,  saluted 
stiffly  and  showed  by  his  first  words  that  he  had  no 
intention  of  mentioning  the  ugly  words  that  had  been 
swapped  that  morning  across  the  telephone. 

"Ich  bin  hier  in  Sachen  der  Ehrenangelegenheit 
zwischen  Ihnen  und  Herr  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede, 
Herr  Leutnant — I  have  called  on  you  in  the  matter  of 
the  affair  of  honor  between  you  and  the  Baron,"  was 
his  opening  speech. 

"Yes,  Colonel?" 

"You  will  consider  yourself  under  arrest  for  the 
time-being.  Stubenarrest,  we  call  it  in  the  army. 
That  is,  you  will  remain  in  your  rooms,  under  parole, 
until  you  hear  from  the  court-martial." 

Tom  smiled.  He  was  not  very  much  troubled.  He 
knew  that  duels  amongst  officers  and  students  and 
generally  the  gentry  were  condoned  in  Prussia,  in  fact 
hushed  up,  hardly  ever  mentioned  except  by  the  liberal 
or  radical  and,  occasionally,  the  catholic  press. 

He  said  something  of  the  sort,  laughingly,  but  the 
Colonel  remained  perfectly  serious. 

218 


THE  NOOSE  IN  THE  WEB  219 

"Herr  Leutnant,"  he  replied,  "you  are  right.  We 
do  not  make  much  fuss  over  a  bloodless  duel  or  one 
where  a  participant  has  only  been  wounded." 

"Well?" 

"But  Germany  needs  officers.  The  Emperor  has 
given  strict  orders  that  the  death  of  an  officer  in  a 
duel  must  be  thoroughly  investigated — sharply  pun 
ished." 

Tom  was  startled. 

"Death  of  an  officer?     What  are  you  giving  me?" 

The  Colonel  rose. 

"Herr  Leutnant''  he  replied,  "I  regret  to  inform 
you  that  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede  died  from  the  ef 
fect  of  his  wounds  a  little  over  an  hour  ago  and  .  .  ." 

"You're  crazy,  man,"  cried  the  Westerner.  "I  only 
disabled  him.  Shot  him  through  both  wrists.  What 
are  you  trying  to  do?  Scare  me?  Look  here  .  .  ." 

The  Colonel's  gloved  hand  commanded  silence.  He 
rose. 

"The  Baron  died,"  he  said.  "The  official,  regi 
mental  inquest  is  this  afternoon.  I  repeat  that  you 
are  on  parole  until  then.  You  will  not  leave  your 
apartment  nor  try  to  communicate  with  a  soul.  I 
may  be  allowed  to  add,"  he  wound  up  vindictively, 
"that  you  needn't  try  any  of  your  American  tricks — 
that  you  needn't  try  to  telephone  to  your  so  valu 
able  friends  at  the  British  Embassy.  Central  has  re 
ceived  instructions  to  listen  in  on  your  telephone  con 
versations."  And  he  left,  his  saber  rattling  behind 
him,  while  Tom  muttered  savagely  to  himself : 

"Sure.  I  get  you  all  right.  I  know  what  that 
parole  dope  amounts  to.  Parole?  Hell!  You  got 
your  jackal,  Krauss,  to  watch  over  me!  Trying  to 
catch  me  with  the  goods,  eh?" 

He  paced  up  and  down. 


220  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

His  thoughts  were  in  a  whirl.  * 

Why  ?     It  wasn't  credible.     It  wasn't  possible. 

He  knew  a  thing  or  two  about  flesh  wounds.  He 
had  had  experiences  out  West,  as  a  boy,  before  peace 
had  come  to  the  range. 

And  the  snrgeon  had  said  that  the  Baron  was  not 
dead,  that  the  wounds  were  not  dangerous. 

What  was  it  then  ? 

A — frame  up? 

No! 

He  had  changed  his  earlier  ideas  about  Germany 
and  the  Germans.  No  more  he  believed  in  the  kindly, 
rather  stolid  folk  that  heretofore  had  been  the  Teu 
tonic  prototype  in  his  provincial,  American  imagina 
tion.  He  had  learned  better  since  then.  But  he  told 
himself  that  even  soulless  German  efficiency  would 
stop  at  killing  one  man,  the  Baron,  so  as  to  get  him, 
Tom,  into  the  clutches  of  the  law. 

Too,  why  this  deliberate  intent  to  get  him  ? 

Vyvyan  had  spoken  about  the  Yankee  Doodle 
Glory.  There  was  some  secret  mixed  up  with  that 
cursed  mine  in  the  Hoodoos.  The  Hoodoos !  Rightly 
named ! 

But — the  Germans  ow^ned  the  mine  to  all  intents 
and  purposes.  They  had  their  own  engineers  at 
work.  They  controlled  the  output ! 

What  then  had  happened? 

Perhaps  blood  poisoning  had  set  in. 

No!  The  Baron  was  the  very  picture  of  health 
and  strength.  Blood  poisoning  wouldn't  kill  him  in 
such  a  short  time. 

Perhaps  .  .  . 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down,  he  paced.  Only  one 
thing  was  clear :  Somehow,  the  Baron  had  died  from 
the  flesh  wounds,  which  he  had  inflicted  on  him;  and, 


THE  NOOSE  IN  THE  WEB  221 

with  the  realization,  Tom  became  conscious  of  a  sharp 
regret  in  the  back  cells  of  his  brain. 

He  had  not  meant  to  take  a  life.  Of  course,  the 
other  had  shot  foul,  had  fired  at  the  signal  Two,  had 
tried  to  murder  him.  Still,  the  man  was  a  German, 
an  officer  obeying  orders,  whose  slogan,  for  right  or 
wrong,  was  '  Zu  Befehl — at  your  orders !" ;  and,  some 
how,  the  Westerner  found  it  in  his  big,  generous  heart 
to  forgive. 

No,  no,  before  God — he  had  not  meant  to  take  a 
human  life! 

Tom  felt  utterly  alone.  In  all  those  teeming  Ber 
lin  millions  there  was  not  one  soul  he  could  trust, 
not  one  friendly  hand  that  would  stretch  out  to  grasp 
his,  to  pull  him  from  the  mire. 

Poole  ?  Tom  smiled  bitterly.  Poole  was  the  Vice- 
Consul,  a  good  enough  fellow  to  drink  and  joke  with, 
but  scabbed  with  official  dry  rot,  scared  to  death  of 
losing  his  pull  back  home. 

Bertha?     Old  Mrs.  Wedekind? 

No.  He  was  not  the  sort  to  hide  behind  a  woman's 
skirt,  and  even  if  he  wanted  to,  there  was  Krauss  on 
watch. 

Krauss !  And  how  many  others  ?  All  thin,  steely, 
inexorable  meshes  in  the  Web  that  was  about  his  feet ! 

He  clenched  his  fists  until  the  knuckles  stretched 
white.  He  saw  red. 

In  that  hour  a  terrible,  corroding  hatred  of  Ger 
many,  of  all  that  Germany  stood  for,  was  born  in 
Tom  Graves'  soul. 

He  stepped  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  The 
streets  were  covered  with  a  thin,  flaky  layer  of  April 
snow,  but  people  were  hurrying  in  all  directions,  rosy, 
plump,  well  fed.  A  squadron  of  Dragoons  cantered 
to  the  West,  towards  Halensee,  their  triangular  pen- 


£22  JHE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

nants  fluttering  in  the  low  wind,  their  lance  butts 
creaking  against  the  saddle  leather,  their  sabers  flicker 
ing  like  evil  cressets.  He  heard  the  snarling  voice  of 
the  squadron  leader: 

"Rechts!    Rechts!    Angaloppirt!" 

The  army — the  army — and  again  the  army!  Guns 
and  sabers  and  pistols  and  horses ! 

And  why  ?  What  for  ?  What  was  the  idea  in  back 
of  it? 

Pomp  and  circumstance? 

No!  A  nation,  an  efficient,  thinking  nation  like 
the  German,  did  not  drain  its  financial  blood  just  for 
show  and  glitter ! 

He  remembered  the  Emperor's  speech  at  the  time  of 
the  flag  celebration — the  little  professor's  words — 
other  things  he  had  heard,  from  the  lips  of  Colonel 
Wedekind,  the  Baron,  even  the  young  Ensign.  Empty 
boastings,  silly  vaporings,  he  had  thought  them  at  the 
time. 

God  above!  How  he  hated  them!  And  what  a 
fool  he  had  been — what  a  cursed,  cursed,  purblind 
fool! 

And  Krauss? 

There  was  another  of  'em.  He  rushed  to  the  cor 
ridor.  He'd  get  his  hands  round  that  fellow's  throat. 
He  would  squeeze,  squeeze.  There  would  be  one 
of  them  gone  to  perdition  anyway.  Not  that  the 
desire  to  kill  was  articulate,  deliberate.  Rather,  an 
instinct,  an  overpowering,  unthinking  impulse  .  .  . 

But  he  stopped  on  the  threshold. 

For  he  saw  that  the  outer  door  was  ajar.  He  heard 
yoices  soft,  yet  very  tense,  very  excited. 

One  was  that  of  Krauss,  talking  through  the  crack 
in  the  door: 


THE  NOOSE  IN  THE  WEB  223 

"No,  no,  gnddiges  Fraulein.  I  can't — honestly!  I 
have  my  orders.  Please  .  .  ." 

"Dear  Krauss!  I  must  see  him/'  came  the  other 
voice. 

It  was  Bertha's,  and  Tom  cleared  the  length  of  the 
corridor,  opened  the  door,  drew  Bertha  inside,  and 
faced  the  valet  who  was  standing  there,  a  picture  of 
abject  misery,  terrible  indecision. 

Tom  was  very  quiet.     Gone  was  his  desire  to  kill. 

"Krauss,"  he  said,  "I  guess  you  still  have  a  few 
decent  instincts  left." 

"I—I  .  .  ." 

In  his  own  simple  way  Tom  knew  the  human  heart, 
the  human  soul.  He  slapped  the  other  on  the  shoul 
der. 

"Sure  you  have.  You  bet  you  have.  You're  just 
scared  of  the  fellow  higher  up.  They  drilled  and 
trained  and  punched  and  kicked  your  poor  old  soul 
till  it  creaks.  But — Gosh — you  are  a  man,  aren't 
you?  You  got  some  decency,  some  kindliness.  'Fess 
up,  man!  There's  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of." 

Krauss  bowed  very  stiffly. 

"You  are  right,  sir,"  he  replied.  "I  have  some — ah 
— decency,  kindliness.  I — am  blind,  deaf!  I  see 
nothing.  I  know  nothing!"  and  he  bowed  again  and 
went  to  his  room,  softly  closing  the  door  while  the 
Westerner  ushered  the  girl  into  the  little  salon  that 
overlooked  the  Kurfiirstendamm. 

"Well,  Bertha?"  His  words  seemed  very  foolish, 
very  inadequate. 

She  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  brimming  with  tears, 
her  lips  working  convulsively,  her  narrow,  white 
hands  twitching  nervously. 

She   tried    to    speak.     Could   not.     Just   a    faint, 


224  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

choked  gurgle  deep  in  her  throat;  and  Tom,  his  very 
soul  torn  by  love,  by  pity,  by  a  great,  fine  longing, 
put  his  arms  around  her  shoulders.  There  was  no 
thought  now  in  his  mind  about  his  own  predicament. 
Bertha  was  in  trouble.  That  was  all  that  counted. 

Clumsily,  he  patted  her  cheeks. 

"Tell  me,  child,"  he  whispered.  "Tell  me,  honey. 
Come  on — tell  me,  best  beloved !" 

Through  her  tears  she  smiled  at  him,  just  a  little 
mischievously. 

"You  mustn't  take  advantage  of  me — because  I  am 
in  trouble — to  ..." 

"To  kiss  you?"  Tom,  too,  smiled.  "All  right, 
Bertha,  I'll  wait  until  after  you've  told  me.  Now" — 
very  seriously — "What  is  it?  All  right.  Take  your 
time!" 

And  Bertha  told  him :  A  long  pitiful  tale,  another 
tale  of  the  Web  that  out  there,  from  the  Russian 
frontier  to  the  French,  from  the  Channel  to  the  Alps, 
even  far  across  the  sea,  in  the  United  States,  Brazil, 
China,  Morocco,  stretched  its  fine,  steely,  pitiless 
meshes. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

BERTHA    SPEAKS 

HER  first  words  flattened  into  a  low  sob,  but  one 
that  Tom,  somehow,  was  glad  to  hear: 

"I  am  homesick,  Tom.  I  want  to  go  back  to  our 
own  country,  to  America,  to  Spokane!'1 

"Why,  child,"  he  smiled,  "what  about  .  .  ." 

"No,  no,  no!  Do  not  tease  me!  You  must  not 
tease  me !  I  can't  stand  it,  Tom !" 

"Of  course  not.  Forgive  me,  dearest.  Sure — you 
are  homesick!  You  want  to  smell  the  scent  of  the 
pines.  You  want  to  see  the  open  range.  And  you're 
going  home.  On  the  next  ship,  see  ?  Straight  away ! 
We'll  fix  that  little  matter  in  no  time !" 

Her  reply  came  very  sober,  but  with  a  certain  tense, 
dramatic  suppression : 

"I  wish  you  could.     But  I  am  afraid  .  .  ." 

"Afraid  that  I  can't  fix  it?     Shucks,  nothing  to  it!" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  don't  understand,  Tom.  Wait.  My  thoughts 
are  all  so  frightfully  confused.  There's  so  much  to 
tell  you,  so  very,  very  much.  You  must  be  patient 
with  me." 

Tom  was  shocked,  less  at  her  words  than  at  the  in 
flection  of  her  voice,  the  hunted,  tragic  look  in  her 
eyes.  Always,  as  he  had  known  her,  she  had  been 
high  spirited,  willful,  a  little  spoiled  by  both  her  par 
ents,  yet  more  spoiled  by  her  uncle  and  the  young 
officers  who  crowded  her  uncle's  apartment. 

225 


226  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

But,  suddenly,  a  change  seemed  to  have  come  over 
her.  She  was  .  .  . 

Crushed !     Yes.     That  was  the  word. 

He  drew  in  his  breath.  Again  his  hatred  against 
Germany,  all  things  German,  surged  through  his  soul 
like  a  crimson,  murderous  wave. 

He  controlled  himself. 

"Tell  me  what  has  happened,"  he  said,  his  words 
coming  one  by  one,  staccato,  very  distinct. 

"I  will,  Tom,"  and  she  said  that  for  many  weeks 
past  she  had  wanted  to  go  home. 

"But — I  don't  mean  to  tease  you — but,  dear,  you 
told  me  that  .  .  ." 

"I  know.  I  was  stubborn — and  foolish — and — I — 
what  do  the  Chinamen  call  it?  Yes.  I  wanted  to 
save  my  face.  Before  everybody.  Before  you. 
Even  before  myself.  I  did  not  want  to  own  up  to 
it  that  my  heart  was  simply  crying  for  home,  simply 
choking  with  the  desire  of  it.  I  guess  I  must  have 
been  homesick  ever  since  Christmas.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  Christmas  feeling  that  started  it.  You  know — 
back  home — at  Christmas — mother — father  .  .  ." 

"Sure,  child.     I  know." 

She  dried  her  eyes. 

"I  told  uncle.  And  he  said  yes.  He  would  get 
me  my  ticket.  Any  time  I  wanted." 

"Well?" 

"I  asked  him  time  and  again.  But  always  he  made 
some  excuse.  He  told  me  the  ship  was  crowded. 
Another  time  that  he  had  forgotten.  Again  that  the 
Uhlans  were  giving  a  dance  and  that  I  was  specially 
invited.  Then  I  wrote  home  to  father,  and  asked 
him  to  send  me  money  for  the  ticket." 

"Why  didn't  you  do  that  in  the  first  place?" 

"Uncle  and  aunt  asked  me  not  to.     They  said  that 


BERTHA  SPEAKS  227 

they  had  invited  me  to  Berlin,  that  it  was  up  to  them 
to  pay  my  fare  back  home." 

"Well?  What  happened?  What  did  your  father 
reply?" 

"He  didn't  reply!" 

"What?"  Tom  was  utterly  amazed;  and  the  girl 
explained  to  him  that  in  the  Colonel's  house  all  de 
tails,  large  and  small,  were  attended  to  with  absolute 
military  precision.  All  letters  were  collected  by  the 
Bursche,  who  stamped  them  and  took  them  to  the  post 
office.  She  had  written  twice  a  week,  asking  her 
father  to  cable  the  money.  But  no  answer  except 
some  letters  that  must  have  crossed  hers  and  that 
complained  because  she  had  not  written  for  weeks. 

Then,  two  weeks  ago,  she  had  gone  to  her  uncle's 
study  during  his  absence  to  get  her  grandmother  a 
deck  of  solitaire  cards  and,  quite  by  chance,  she  had 
looked  into  the  waste-paper  basket. 

"And  I  saw  there  a  letter  I  had  written  the  day 
before — torn  to  pieces!  Tom!  Uncle  never  mailed 
any  of  my  letters  I  I  am  sure  of  it!" 

"Heavens !    What  did  you  do,  Bertha  ?    Didn't  you 
kick  up  a  .  .  ." 
"A  row?     No." 
"Why  not?" 

"I  was  taken  aback.  I  was  frightened,  so  fright 
ened.  I  rushed  into  grandmother's  room  and  told  her. 
And  she  made  me  promise  not  to  say  a  word  to  uncle. 
She  told  me  she  couldn't  explain  to  me,  that  I  was  an 
American,  that  I  did  not  know  Germany,  the  German 
army,  the  German  system.  She  said  to  give  her  time. 
She  herself  would  arrange  matters." 

"Why  didn't  you  come  to  me — at  once  ?"  Tom  was 
hurt. 

"But  I  told  you.     I  was  ashamed/' 


228  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Sure."  He  inclined  his  red  head.  "Go  on,  child. 
What  did  grandmother  do  ?" 

"I  guess  she  must  have  cabled  at  once.  For  this 
morning  she  received  a  letter,  and  in  it  was  one  for 
me  asking  me  to  rely  absolutely  on  you.  Father  seems 
to  be  afraid  for  me — of  something.  He  doesn't  say 
of  what.  I  suppose  he  thinks  I'm  just  a  silly  little 
goose — and,"  she  sobbed,  "he  is  right.  I  have  been 
so  foolish,  so  frightfully,  frightfully  obstinate!  He 
writes  that  I  must  be  very  careful,  very  silent,  very 
circumspect.  He,  too,  says,  just  like  grandmother, 
that  I  would  not  understand,  because  I  am  an  Amer 
ican.  And,  Tom  dear,"  she  added  with  a  pathetic  lit 
tle  sigh,  "I  always  imagined  that  I  was  so  thoroughly 
German !" 

Tom  could  not  suppress  a  smile. 

"Little  error  of  judgment,"  he  said.  "Happens  in 
the  best  regulated  families.  What  else  did  your  Dad 
say?" 

"He  enclosed  another  letter  in  grandmother's — for 
you.  Grandmother  believes  he  must  have  been  afraid 
to  write  to  you  direct." 

Tom  gave  a  little  exclamation  of  approval. 

"Some  little  gray  matter  your  father's  got!  All 
right.  Let's  have  his  letter  to  me." 

Bertha  gave  it  to  him,  and  he  read. 

"Dear  Tom,"  wrote  Martin  Wedekind,  "you  must 
come  back  to  America  as  soon  as  possible  together 
with  Bertha.  She  is  safe  with  you,  and  with  nobody 
else.  She  must  not  go  alone.  I  would  come  to  Ger 
many  myself,  but  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  that 
that  would  make  matters  worse.  I  doubt,  in  fact, 
that  the  Germans  would  let  me  cross  the  frontier. 
Tom,  it's  up  to  you.  You  are  in  the  army,  but  you 


BERTHA  SPEAKS  229 

must  get  out  of  it.  I  rely  upon  you  implicitly.  I 
know  that  you  love  Bertha,  that,  somehow,  you  will 
succeed. 

"Let  me  explain  to  you  everything  as  far  as  I  can. 

"Over  a  year  ago,  shortly  after  Newson  Garrett 
assayed  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  ore  and  discovered 
the  unknown  ingredient  which  at  the  time  made  such 
a  stir  in  the  scientific  world,  I  received  a  letter  from 
my  brother  Heinrich.  He  asked  me  to  remember  that 
I  am  a  German  by  birth,  that  Germany  never  forgets 
her  sons,  that  I  owe  everything  to  Germany,  my  blood, 
my  training,  my  education.  He  wound  up  by  beg 
ging  me  to  assist  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede,  who  was 
coming  to  the  West,  if  he  wished  to  buy  the  Yankee 
Doodle  Glory  mine.  At  once  I  became  suspicious. 
I  always  am  when  a  German,  chiefly  an  officer  or  a 
Government  official,  asks  me  to  remember  that  I  am 
a  native  of  Germany.  There  is  always  a  reason  for 
that  bit  of  clanking  sentimentality,  and  that  reason 
is  always  fishy.  So  I  decided  to  be  careful,  the  more 
so  as  Newson  Garrett  told  me  that  he  had  sent  spec 
imens  of  the  ore  to  a  German  chemist  in  New  York 
for  further  examination,  as  you  had  received  a  cable 
from  Johannes  Hirschfeld  &  Co.  in  Berlin  offering 
you  a  tremendously  big  price  for  the  mine,  and  as 
Truex,  too,  had  received  a  similar  cable. 

"So,  instead  of  helping  the  Baron,  I  put  obstacles 
in  his  way. 

"Then  you  went  to  Europe.  A  day  later  came  the 
cable  from  my  brother  with  the  news  that  my  mother 
was  very  sick  and  wished  to  see  Bertha  before  she 
died.  Naturally  I  let  my  daughter  go.  When,  later 
on,  I  discovered  that  my  mother  was  well,  that  the 
cable  had  been  misspelled  in  transmission,  I  thought 
it  strange,  but  not  enough  to  worry  over.  Then  came 


230  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

\ 

the  Lehneke  affair.  You  joined  the  army.  Shortly 
afterwards  the  affair  was  settled  in  your  favor.  But 
I  did  not  feel  relieved.  I  was  not  a  bit  surprised 
when  Gamble  got  his  walking  papers  and  German  en 
gineers  took  charge  of  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory  out 
put.  I  know  how  they  do  things  in  Germany  and 
had  no  way  of  warning  you. 

"I  did  not  know  why  the  Germans  wanted  the  mine. 
I  do  not  know  now.  I  only  know  they  do  want  it — 
and  they  have  it. 

"So  I  resigned  myself  to  the  fact  of  it  until  yes 
terday,  the  thirtieth  of  April,  Nineteen  Hundred  and 
Fourteen,  I  received  my  mother's  cable  asking  me  to 
see  to  it  that  Bertha  returned  to  America  at  once. 
I  had  not  had  a  line  from  Bertha  for  weeks.  I  can 
imagine  the  reason.  I  repeat,  I  know  Germany. 

"I  was  for  going  straight  over  when,  just  as  I  was 
about  to  arrange  about  tickets,  I  received  a  visit  from 
a  German  who  refused  to  give  his  name.  But  his 
words  were  succinct,  to  the  point. 

"He  told  me  that  a  subsidized  German  steamship 
line  was  running  from  Tacoma  to  Hamburg,  via 
Hongkong.  He  told  me  that  the  British  authorities 
at  the  latter  place  had  refused  clearance  papers  to  the 
first  steamer.  Therefore  the  German  Government 
wished  succeeding  steamers  to  sail  under  the  Amer 
ican  flag,  since  they  were  sure  that  the  British  would 
not  interfere  with  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  He  asked 
me  to  play  dummy,  and  he  offered  me  two  hundred 
thousand  dollars  spot  cash  for  the  job. 

"I  refused,  flatly.  For  the  man  was  not  a  German- 
American,  a  plain  business  man,  but  the  home-grown, 
home-bred  product,  short  spoken,  impudent,  rasping. 
In  other  words,  a  German  official  specially  sent  for 
the  purpose  of  seeing  me,  of  offering  me  money  for 


BERTHA  SPEAKS  231 

something  that,  at  first  sight,  did  not  seem  to  pay — 
them,  the  Germans.  And  I  always  mistrust  a  German 
carrying  gifts.  He  is  rather  like  the  Greek  of  history 
in  that  respect.  So,  I  repeat,  I  refused. 

"But  my  visitor  smiled.  He  told  me  very  calmly 
that  I  would  have  to  come  to  terms.  I  asked  why, 
and  he  replied,  still  very  calmly,  that  my  daughter 
would  be  held  a  hostage  in  Germany  until  I  agreed. 

"Yes,  Tom!  A  hostage!  In  this,  the  Twentieth, 
the  civilized  Century! 

"Even  then  I  refused.  You  see,  Tom,  I  love  my 
daughter.  But,  too,  I  love  America.  I  owe  every 
thing  to  America.  My  roots  are  here,  my  soul,  my 
heart,  my  very  secret  being — and — I  do  not  trust  Ger 
many.  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  But  I  just  feel  that 
I  would  do  wrong  in  doing  what  my  unknown  visitor 
asked  me  to. 

"I  did  not  give  him  all  these  reasons.  I  simply 
showed  him  to  the  door.  He  bowed  in  the  regular, 
stiff  Prussian  fashion.  He  said  that  it  would  be  quite 
useless  for  me  to  try  to  go  to  Germany,  to  rescue  my 
daughter — for  that  is  what  it  amounts  to — and  I  know 
that  he  is  speaking  the  truth.  Thus  I  rely  on  you, 
Tom.  It  is  up  to  you.  You  must  do  it,  somehow. 
You  must,  Tom!  (The  words  were  heavily  under- 
lined. ) 

"I  am  afraid  to  address  these  lines  to  you.  Your 
mail  will  be  watched  from  now  on.  So  I  am  writing 
to  my  mother  and  enclosing  this  letter,  as  well  as  one 
for  Bertha.  I  don't  think  Heinrich  will  interfere  with 
mother's  mail.  He  is  nearly  as  scared  of  her  as  he  is 
of  his  superior  officers." 

Tom  looked  up. 

"How  did  you  manage  to  get  here?"  he  asked. 


232  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Bertha  smiled. 

"Oh,  it  was  a  regular  escapade.  You  know,  here 
tofore  I  have  never  been  out  alone.  I  was  told  by 
uncle  that  it  was  not  good  form  in  Berlin.  And  I 
believed  him.  Now  I  know.  He  did  not  want  me  to 
be  able  to. communicate  \vith  anybody,  and  so  I  was 
always  either  with  him,  or  with  aunt,  or  with  some 
of  the  officers.  To-day,  after  the  letter  came,  my 
dressmaker  came  to  the  house,  and  I" — she  smiled 
through  her  tears — -"I  grabbed  her  coat,  rushed  out  of 
the  room,  locked  her  in,  and  was  out  of  the  house 
down  the  back  stairs  before  anybody  knew  what  was 
happening." 

"Bully  for  you,  kid!"  applauded  Tom.  "There's 
the  right  American  spirit.  And  now — watch  your 
Uncle  Dudley.  I'll  get  you  out  of  Germany  all  right. 
Come  along.  We'll  go  .  .  ."  Suddenly  he  was  silent. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Tom?" 

"I — I — "  Tom  was  making  a  painful  effort  to 
choke  back  his  words. 

But  she  remembered  the  valet's  words,  how  he  had 
told  her  he  could  not  let  her  in,  that  it  was  against 
his  orders. 

"Tom !"  she  cried.     "Tom !     Tell  me !" 

His  hands  opened  and  shut  spasmodically.  Then 
he  told  her.  He  had  to.  There  was  no  way  out 
of  it. 

"Bertha,"  he  said,  "I  am  under  arrest.  I  am  going 
to  be  tried  by  court-martial  ..." 

"For  what?" 

"I  don't  know.  Manslaughter,  I  guess.  Perhaps 
murder.  God  knows." 

"Murder — you  ..." 

"Yes.     There  was  a  duel.     I  shot  .  .  ." 

"Whom  ?     Whom,  Tom  ?" 


BERTHA  SPEAKS  233 

"Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede.  I  killed  him.  No,  no !" 
as  he  saw  that  she  was  about  to  collapse.  "Don't  give 
way,  honey!  You've  been  so  bully,  so  brave.  Don't 
give  way  now.  Everything'll  be  all  right.  Come 
with  me." 

He  grabbed  his  uhlanka  and  his  silver  gray  cape, 
and  accompanied  her  out  to  the  corridor.  Already  his 
hand  was  on  the  door-knob  when  he  heard  Krauss' 
voice  in  back  of  him. 

"Herr  Leutnant!     I  have  orders  to  .  .  ." 

"Sure.  I  know.  And  this  time  I  guess  there's  no 
persuading  you  to  be  influenced  by  your  decent  in 
stincts,  your  kindly  impulses?" 

The  valet  blushed. 

"I  regret,  Herr  Leutnant.  Somebody  may  come — 
perhaps  the  Colonel  himself  .  .  ." 

"And  then  you'd  be  in  a  hell  of  a  pickle.  All  right. 
Here's  where  I  turn  Prussian — and  here's  where  you 
give  in  to  the  unanswerable  Prussian  argument !"  and 
he  whirled  quickly,  clenched  his  fist,  and  drove  it 
straight  to  the  other's  jaw. 

The  man  fell  like  a  tree  cut  away  from  the  support 
ing  roots. 

"Here,  Bertha/'  commanded  Tom,  "lend  a  hand." 

Bravely  the  girl  helped,  and  between  her  and  Tom, 
two  minutes  later  Krauss  was  in  his  room,  on  his  cot, 
securely  tied  and  gagged. 

They  went  down  the  stairs  as  if  nothing  had  hap 
pened  and  hailed  a  taxicab. 

"Where  to?"  asked  the  driver. 

Tom  was  going  to  say  the  American  Consulate. 
But  he  remembered  his  former  experiences.  It  would 
be  all  right  to  give  the  girl  to  Poole's  protection,  but 
there  was  Martin  Wedekind's  injunction  that  she  must 
not  travel  alone,  that  it  was  up  to  Tom  to  bring  her. 


234  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

For  a  moment  he  was  puzzled. 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  he  thought  of  Vyvyan,  of 
Vyvyan's  warning,  of  Vyvyan's  ring— the  little  sim 
ple  silver  affair  with  the  figure  of  a  grayhound  en 
graved  on  the  round  shield  and  above  it  the  letters- 
B.  E.  D. 

"To  the  British  Embassy!"  he  directed  the  driver. 
"Just  as  quick  as  you  can !" 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

BACK  FIRE 

BY  the  time  the  machine  reached  the  Leipziger 
Strasse  it  was  fairly  late.  The  sidewalks  were 
packed  with  a  homing  throng  of  clerks  and  girls  from 
banks  and  counting-houses  and  department  stores. 
Trucks  and  motor-cars,  often  driving  three  abreast, 
busses  and  surface  cars,  clanked  and  hooted  down  the 
main  roads,  splitting  here  and  there  to  deliver  their 
freight,  human  or  otherwise,  in  the  Southern  and 
Western  suburbs.  The  white-gloved  policemen  had 
their  hands  full,  and  Tom  fretted  as  his  taxicab  was 
caught  in  a  crush  at  the  corner  of  the  Wilhelm  Strasse. 

By  this  time  the  inquest  must  be  nearly  over. 
Somebody  might  call  at  his  house,  perhaps  try  to 
reach  it  by  telephone.  He  was  playing  the  game  by 
a  dangerously  narrow  margin. 

He  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when  finally  the  ma 
chine  made  the  corner  and  purred  down  the  Wilhelm 
Strasse,  past  the  stolid,  gray  bulk  of  the  Agrarian 
Bank,  past  the  red  sand-stone  monstrosity  of  the  Ber 
liner  Bank,  past  the  Radziwil  Palace  and  the  back 
entrance  to  the  Chancellor's  park,  and  he  felt  very 
much  like  a  Moslem  pilgrim  when  he  beholds  the  sa 
cred  Kaaba  standing  out  above  the  yellow  Arabian 
desert,  or  a  nervous  skipper  who  fnakes  port  after  a 
stormy  crossing,  when  the  British  Embassy  came  into 
view,  a  beautiful  little  marble  building,  cool  and  white 

235 


236  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

and  gleaming,   pagan  in  its  utter   Greek  simplicity. 

The  taxicab  stopped. 

"Na — hier  sind  wir  ja,  Herr  Leutnant!"  came  the 
driver's  jovial  voice,  and  Tom  jumped  out,  giving 
Bertha  a  helping  hand. 

It  was  now  very  dark.  The  trailing,  swift  shadows 
of  April  were  dropping  like  a  cloak — grim,  portentous 
i — and  Tom  shivered  a  little,  involuntarily. 

"Come  on,  Bertha.  We've  no  time  to  waste,  and 
I've  got  to  find  me  my  unknown  friend  inside." 

Already  he  had  crossed  the  sidewalk.  Already  his 
foot  was  on  the  first  step  of  the  short  flight  of  stairs 
that  led  up  to  the  main  entrance  of  the  Embassy  when, 
suddenly,  there  was  a  rush  that  carried  him  off  his 
feet,  away  from  the  girl. 

Tom  swore,  looked,  hit. 

Half-a-dozen  men  had  jumped  from  the  shadowy 
gateway  of  the  bank  building  that  was  next  to  the 
Embassy.  They  were  officers  all.  Some  were  of  the 
Uhlans,  men  he  knew,  others  were  infantrymen  whom 
he  had  met  casually. 

He  heard  the  Colonel's  voice : 

"Get  him.  He's  dangerous.  No,  no — don't  kill 
him!"  as  a  saber  flashed  free,  gleaming  evilly  in  the 
flickering  light. 

Somebody  had  blown  a  whistle.  A  platoon  of 
policemen  came  panting  up  at  double  quick  step. 
They  drew  a  cordon  around  the  scene,  screening  it 
against  the  excited,  curious  crowd  that  poured  up  the 
street  and  from  neighboring  houses. 

A  window  opened  in  the  Embassy. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  inquired  a  woman's  voice, 
anxious,  in  English. 

Nobody  answered.  There  was  no  time.  For  Tom 
kept  his  assailants  busy.  He  had  left  his  saber  at 


BACK  FIRE  237 

home,  but  his  fists  flew  out,  right  and  left,  right  and 
left,  up  and  down,  like  flails.  One  man  went  down. 
Another,  cursing: 

"Der  Kerl  ist  ja  verriickt!" 

"Das  ist  ja  ganz  unerhort  .  .  ." 

And  again  Tom's  fist  descended,  taking  toll.  He 
fought  silently,  shrewdly,  with  a  certain  savage,  ring 
ing  joy  in  his  heart. 

He  heard  Bertha's  stifled  outcry;  and  he  redoubled 
his  blows. 

"Damn  you!" — as  a  man  grabbed  him  around  the 
neck,  from  the  back,  and  his  foot  kicked  sideways  and 
up — and  a  howl  of  pain. 

But  the  odds  were  against  him.  The  flat  of  a  saber 
struck  his  right  elbow,  paralyzing  it.  He  fought  on 
with  his  left,  blindly.  That,  too,  was  disarmed. 
Somebody  hit  him  in  the  face.  Blood  squirted,  half 
blinding  him;  and  the  last  thing  he  saw  as  he  was 
being  dragged  towards  the  cab  that  was  still  at  the 
curb,  was  Colonel  Wedekind.  He  was  holding  Ber 
tha  by  both  arms,  pressing  the  elbows  back  until  they 
touched  each  other.  The  girl's  lips  were  tightly  com 
pressed,  but  she  did  not  utter  a  sound.  Somebody 
had  called  another  taxicab,  and  a  young  lieutenant 
of  infantry  was  holding  the  door  open. 

The  Colonel  forced  the  girl  inside.  He  addressed 
the  lieutenant  in  a  snarling,  cutting  voice : 

"See  her  home,  Baron  von  Blitzewitz.  Let  nobody 
near  her.  Watch  over  her  until  my  return.  No  ex 
cuse,  no  loop-hole!  She  is  your  prisoner,  and  you 
are  responsible.  Understand?" 

"Zu  Bcfehl,  Herr  Oberst!" 

Lieutenant  von  Blitzewitz  saluted,  clicked  his  heels 
and  entered  the  car,  which  purred  away  while  the 
Colonel  turned  to  the  Westerner. 


238  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

His  little  blue  eyes  blazed  with  fury.  His  fists  were 
clenched,  he  was  about  to  strike  Tom,  who  was  helpless 
in  the  grip  of  half-a-dozen  officers.  But  he  controlled 
himself. 

Only  his  words  came,  venomous,  triumphant,  quick, 
like  machine-gun  bullets : 

"Got  you.  Right  in  the  act.  About  to  communi 
cate  with  the  enemy  of  the  Fatherland,  eh?" 

Tom's  wits  had  a  trick,  learned  at  roundup  and, 
too,  if  the  truth  be  told,  at  poker,  of  acting  quickly 
and  tellingly  when  he  was  in  a  tight  corner,  with  the 
odds  against  him. 

"Who's  the  enemy?"  he  inquired  gently. 

"You  tried  to  enter  the  British  Embassy !" 

"Well  ?  And  since  when  are  England  and  Germany 
at  war?"  came  Tom's  jeering  rejoinder. 

Wedekind  choked  down  his  reply. 

"In  with  him !"  he  bellowed  at  the  officers  who  were 
holding  Tom. 

They  obeyed,  and  the  Colonel  entered  after  them, 
having  given  the  driver  Tom's  address.  The  machine 
clanked  away. 

But  all  the  way  home  Tom  fought  savagely,  joy 
ously.  He  was  convinced  that  his  captors  had  posi 
tive  instructions  not  to  kill  him,  and  so  he  took  advan 
tage  of  the  situation.  At  every  opportunity  his  fists 
flew  out,  finding  their  mark,  and  it  was  a  torn,  bleed 
ing,  perspiring,  cursing  group  of  Prussians  that  finally 
entered  the  apartment  on  the  Kurfiirstendamm. 

There  the  officers  surrounded  him  with  drawn  sa 
bers  while  the  Colonel  faced  him,  speaking  quickly, 
hectically. 

"You  will  be  tried  for  the  death  of  Baron  von  Gotz- 
Wrede."  He  smiled  cynically.  "A  bad  enough  of- 


BACK  FIRE  239 

fense  that.  No  mercy  will  be  shown  you.  And  so — 
ah — I  shall  be  considerate  enough  not  to  press  all  the 
minor  charges  against  you:  The  breaking  of  your 
parole,  resistance  to  arrest,  striking  your  superior  of 
ficer — "  he  touched  rather  gingerly  his  right  eye  that 
was  framed  in  prismatic  green  and  heliotrope  where 
the  horse  wrangler's  fist  had  come  into  contact  with 
it.  "I  give  you  fifteen  minutes  to  pack  your  trunk. 

"Hauptmann  von  Quitzow!  Leutnant  von  Bayer- 
lein!"  He  turned  to  the  two  officers.  "You  will 
watch  the  prisoner  while  he  packs.  Krauss!"  to  the 
valet  who  had  appeared  on  the  threshold,  "help  Lieu 
tenant  Graves.  Quick !  Fifteen  minutes !  No  more !" 

"Zu  Befehl,  Herr  Oberst!" 

The  two  officers  marched  the  Westerner  into  his 
bedroom,  Krauss  following,  where  Tom  rapidly  threw 
the  necessary  articles  into  his  trunk. 

Krauss  helped  loyally. 

"Sorry,  old  fellow,"  whispered  Tom  as,  both  bend 
ing  over  the  trunk,  his  head  touched  that  of  the  valet. 
"Didn't  mean  to  hit  you  so  hard." 

Krauss  muttered  an  indistinct,  tearful  reply,  and 
Tom  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  came  out  with  a  hun 
dred  mark  banknote,  and  pressed  it  surreptitiously  into 
the  other's  hand. 

A  minute  later  he  straightened  up. 

"All  ready,  gentlemen,"  he  said.  "Lead  on.  By 
the  way" — to  von  Quitzow,  whom  he  knew  fairly  well 
from  riding  drill — -"what's  going  to  happen?" 

Von  Quitzow  shook  his  head  sadly.  He  was  a  tall, 
very  fat,  red-faced  Junker  from  East  Prussia  wljo,  a 
musician  by  nature,  had  only  entered  the  army  be 
cause  his  father  had  forced  him.  He  was  a  good 
enough  officer,  who  took  his  duties  seriously,  but,  un- 


240  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

der lying  it,  was  a  streak  of  hot,  heavy,  rather  boyish 
sentimentality  that  came  to  the  surface  at  odd  mo 
ments. 

Now  he  shook  Tom's  hand. 

"Our  orders  are  to  get  you  to  Spandau,  to  the  for 
tification — Festung,  you  know — military  prison.  I  am 
sorry,  Graves.  I  wish  I  could  .  .  ." 

"I  get  you  all  right,  sonny!"  came  Tom's  cheerful 
reply.  "  'Zu  Befehl!'  That's  what's  biting  you,  eh? 
Never  mind.  It'll  all  come  out  in  the  wash." 

And  he  went  into  the  other  room,  saluted  the  Colo 
nel,  walked  down-stairs  and,  two  Uhlans  with  drawn 
sabers  right  and  left,  entered  the  waiting  taxicab  with 
out  showing  further  fight. 

But  his  thoughts  were  feverishly  at  work. 

For  there  was  Bertha. 

It  was  up  to  him  to  see  her  safely  out  of  Germany ! 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

SPANDAU 

THE  gray,  frowning  walls  of  Spandau  fortress 
swallowed  Tom.  Cut  off  he  was  from  the  world  out 
side,  in  a  small,  neatly  furnished  room  with  bathroom 
attached,  the  windows  doubly  barred  with  steel,  the 
doors,  too,  of  steel  and  patrolled  day  and  night  by 
armed  sentries.  The  food  was  good  and  plentiful, 
the  treatment  courteous  but  severe.  Each  day  he  was 
allowed  three  hours  for  exercise  on  the  Kaserncnhof, 
the  barrack  yard. 

"I  regret  it,"  General  Unruh,  who  commanded  the 
officers'  prison  wing  of  the  fortress,  explained  to  him. 
"As  a  rule,  the  officers  here  are  allowed  complete  lib 
erty.  Are  put  on  parole.  But  I  understand  that  you 
broke  parole  in  Berlin.  Tut  mir  leid!" 

Tom  resigned  himself  to  the  inevitable.  With  his 
clear,  simple  mind  he  thought  the  situation  over  from 
the  start  to  the  probable  finish. 

The  court-martial  would  come  soon,  and  he  had  de 
cided  to  play  there  a  certain  card.  He  would  speak 
out,  straight  out.  He  would  tell  everything  that  had 
happened,  exactly,  without  omitting  a  single  detail, 
not  only  as  to  the  duel,  but  also  as  to  Bertha  Wede- 
kind  and  the  reason  why  he  had  broken  parole.  For 
he  had  begun  to  realize  that,  at  the  very  best,  he  was 
in  for  a  term  of  years  in  Fe stung.  Thus  he  would 
be  unable  to  do  what  Martin  Wedekind  had  asked  him 
to — to  see  Bertha  home  to  Spokane  personally. 

241 


242  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

He  would  therefore  do  the  next  best  thing.  He 
would  raise  such  a  row  that  the  Germans  simply  would 
not  dare  double  cross. 

Yes!  He  would  give  it  to  them,  straight  from  the 
shoulder,  regardless  of  what  might  happen  to  him. 

Of  course  he  knew  that  court-martials  were  held  in 
secret  session,  but  something  of  the  evidence  given 
there  was  certain  to  leak  out,  into  the  outside  world, 
the  press,  the  ear  of  some  sharp  American  newspaper 
correspondent,  perhaps  Trumbull,  and  the  American 
Government  would  automatically  be  forced  to  act  so  as 
to  protect  Bertha. 

There  was  no  doubt  of  it,  and  so  Tom  awaited  the 
summons  for  court-martial  with  impatience.  He  was 
anxious  about  Bertha,  terribly  anxious.  He  was  al 
lowed  neither  mail  nor  newspapers.  He  had  no  idea 
what  was  going  on  in  the  outside  world,  and  he 
fretted. 

There  were  times  when  he  regretted  the  lost  hopes, 
the  lost  promises  of  his  young,  vigorous  manhood, 
when  he  cursed  the  mine  in  the  Hoodoos — the  Yankee 
Doodle  Glory  which  was  at  the  bottom  of  all  his  trou 
bles.  But  he  controlled  himself  with  a  will.  He  could 
not  afford  to  break  down,  for  there  was  the  girl  he 
loved,  the  girl  he  must  get  out  of  the  German  Eagle's 
clutches — and  so  he  waited,  waited,  for  the  court- 
martial  summons. 

At  times  he  asked  General  Unruh,  who  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"Lieutenant  Graves,"  he  said,  smiling  with  his  lips, 
"never  in  all  my  long  experience  as  fortress  prison 
commander  have  I  seen  anybody  as  anxious  to  stand 
trial  as  you.  You  must  be  very  certain  that  you  are 
going  to  get  off  scot-free !" 

"Well— but  when  will  they  try  me?" 


SPANDAU  243 

"Can't  say,  I'm  sure.  You  will  have  to  compose 
yourself  in  patience." 

And  Tom  did. 

Very  few  visitors  were  allowed  near  him,  and  these 
only  in  the  presence  of  the  General  or  some  other 
high-ranking  officer.  The  little  Ensign  came.  Too, 
von  Quitzow,  and  one  or  two  others.  They  muttered 
banalities  and  went  on  their  way.  No — they  said,  one 
and  all — they  had  not  seen  a  sign  of  Miss  Wedekind. 
The  Ensign  understood  that  she  was  down  with  severe 
illness ;  nobody  was  allowed  near  her. 

And  Tom  waited,  week  after  week,  for  the  court- 
martial  summons  that  did  not  come.  He  had  an  idea 
that  they  were  trying  to  break  his  nerve,  and  he  gritted 
his  teeth  and  forced  himself  to  be  quiet. 

Outside,  late  winter  changed  suddenly  into  early 
spring.  Green  leaves  of  crocus  and  tulip  peeped  out 
overnight  in  the  cement-framed  grass  plot  next  to 
General  Unruh's  quarters.  The  song  birds  returned 
from  the  South.  The  trees  were  clad  in  the  delicate 
tracery  of  the  new  foliage.  Even  the  drab,  square 
Julius  Tower  that  was  said  to  house  Prussia's  mys 
terious  golden  war  chest,  was  touched  and  softened  by 
lacy  sprays  of  color  where  ivy  and  vine  crept  up  from 
the  sandy  Brandenburg  soil. 

Thus  May  passed  with  soft  winds  and  the  virginal 
pink  of  hawthorn  blossoms,  and  June  came,  with  the 
first  crass  heat  of  summer,  with  the  sunset  sky  of  sum 
mer  that  was  like  a  great,  tropical  moth,  crimson  and 
orange,  its  wings  barred  with  black  when  a  thunder 
storm  boomed  overland  all  the  way  from  the  chilly, 
foggy  Baltic. 

And  still  he  waited,  with  no  word  from  Bertha,  no 
summons  to  the  court-martial  that  should  decide  his 
fate  and  hers. 


244  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Every  evening  he  paced  up  and  down  the  cement 
walk  in  front  of  the  prison  wing,  between  armed  sol 
diers.  The  rest  of  the  day  he  spent  at  his  window, 
looking  out  over  the  fortifications  that  dipped  into  the 
ground  like  gopher  holes,  suddenly,  threateningly, 
where  a  sunken  gun  emplacement  frowned  its  unseen 
challenge,  farther  on,  to  the  east,  flattened  out  into 
an  immense,  gray,  dusty  drill  ground ;  and  as  the  days 
passed  into  the  cycle  of  weeks,  this  drill  ground  was 
used  more  and  more.  Nervous  and  swarming  it  was, 
like  a  beehive. 

Not  only  were  the  artillery  men  busy  with  the  lim 
bers  and  the  steel  thills  of  their  gray-and-blue  field 
guns,  but  also  with  sappers  and  cavalry  and  infantry. 

Wherever  Tom  looked,  miniature  battles  were  in 
progress. 

All  one  morning  a  dozen  heaped  batteries  practiced 
drum  fire  with  blank  shells  until  Tom  thought  his  ears 
would  burst  under  the  roar  and  slam  and  clank  of  the 
continuous  salvos,  wailing  as  the  shells  left  the  barrels 
and  rushed  on,  madly  crashing  as  they  thumped  down 
to  their  targets.  The  same  at  night,  varied  by  star 
shells,  flashing  and  vanishing  in  an  intolerable  orange 
haze,  leaping  and  flickering  up,  then  down,  then  along 
the  ground  in  a  gamut  of  flame.  And  again  the  deaf 
ening  sequence  of  shells,  overlapping,  stretching  into 
one  unceasing  roar,  throbbing  to  the  firmament  like 
a  gigantic  drum,  with  triangular  sheets  of  white,  bril 
liant  light  flaring  to  the  zenith,  and  countless  projec 
tiles  rushing  through  the  air  with  a  noise  as  the  tear 
ing  of  silk. 

Or  a  sudden,  terrible  silence — more  terrible  than 
the  inferno  of  sounds  that  had  preceded  it — and  a 
young  officer's  voice,  high,  shrill,  foolish,  frightfully 
inadequate: 


SPANDAU  245 

"Battery!    Over  there!" 

A  non-commissioned  officer's  echoing  voice : 

"Zu  Befehl,  Herr  Leutnant!" 

And  once  more  the  latter' s  order :  "Barrage !  Ten 
rounds  gun  fire!  Fire — fire!" — and  the  crash,  the 
roar,  the  whining  and  wailing  of  tortured  steel  smit 
ing  tortured  earth. 

The  drum  fire  over,  platoons  of  infantry  or  dis 
mounted  cavalry  would  be  put  through  their  paces. 
During  his  months  in  the  army  Tom  had  taken  part 
in  maneuvers  and  military  reviews  and  was  more  or 
less  familiar  with  the  surface  of  ordinary  tactics.  But 
the  drill  which  he  watched  day  after  day  from  his  win 
dow  was  new  to  him. 

At  times,  indeed,  the  old  traditional  Prussian  for 
mation,  the  attack  by  massed  phalanx,  grenadiers 
charging,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  relying  on  brawn  and 
weight  to  crush  the  enemy's  opposition  regardless  of 
the  cost  in  blood  to  their  own  men,  was  followed. 
But  at  other  times  the  lines  were  deployed,  in  a  thin 
loop,  very  much — Tom  thought — as  Western  range 
riders  spread,  fan-like,  when  cattle  stampede. 

Scouts  these,  the  nerves  of  the  army.  Then  an 
other  barrage,  plopping  and  splashing  unexpectedly  in 
a  screen  of  fire  that  melted  from  scarlet  and  gold  to 
livid  purple,  and  specially  picked  troops— he  heard 
General  Unruh  call  them  Stosstruppen,  shock  troops 
— were  sent  forward,  without  rifle  or  bayonet,  armed 
instead  with  trench  knife  and  hand  grenade,  fused  for 
instant  action. 

Over  and  over  again  they  would  be  hurled  forth. 
Drill  was  incessant,  discipline  even  more  merciless  than 
usual.  Men  who  fell  from  exhaustion  were  kicked 
and  cuffed  and  belted  by  the  non-coms  while  the  offi 
cers  turned  their  heads,  pretending  not  to  see. 


246  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

No  newspaper  correspondents,  no  photographers,  no 
civilians  of  any  sort  were  allowed  near  the  parade 
ground;  and  the  troops  that  were  trained  did  not  re 
main  the  same.  They  changed  every  few  days.  On 
a  Monday  it  would  be  the  Maikdfer  Grenadiers,  forty- 
eight  hours  later  the  First  Mecklenburg  Regiment  of 
Foot,  again  East  Prussian  fusiliers,  until  it  seemed 
that  the  whole  North  Germany  army  corps  were  pass 
ing  through  the  Spandau  mill. 

Formerly  Tom  would  have  smiled.     But  not  now. 

Formerly  he  would  have  said  to  himself  that  the 
German  army  was  only  the  glitter,  the  vanity,  the 
imagination  of  the  nation  concretely  realized  in  color 
and  pomp,  very  much  like  a  cowboy  who  swaggers 
into  town,  his  chaps  dyed  a  violent  vermilion.  But 
now  he  saw  the  army  as  a  working  body,  a  pitiless, 
never-resting  machine,  and  at  times  his  thoughts 
swerved  away  from  the  figures,  drilling  out  there  in 
the  heat  and  dust,  and  winged  to  the  German  homes ; 
the  homes  where  these  men  must  have  been  born  and 
bred.  Puppets  they  were,  puppets  of  an  armed,  rasp 
ing,  insolent,  ruling  caste.  But  they  had  women  and 
children ;  mothers  and  sisters  and  sweethearts. 

And  what  were  these  women  thinking  ?  What  were 
they  doing?  Were  they  entirely  inarticulate,  like 
Siwash  squaws?  And  what,  then,  of  civilization,  and 
progress,  and  culture,  and  Christianity? 

Thus  Tom  pondered — Tom,  who  was  simple  no 
more.  He  asked  himself  what  it  was  all  about,  and 
he  was  afraid  of  finding  the  answer. 

Still  the  days  passed,  with  no  news  from  Bertha, 
no  summons  to  court-martial,  until  one  Saturday 
morning  the  General  came  to  his  room  and  told  him 
that  a  visitor  was  there  to  see  him. 


SPANDAU  247 

"Mrs.  Wedekind.     Colonel  Wedekind's  mother." 

A  minute  later  the  General  left,  and  the  sentry 
ushered  Mrs.  Wedekind  in.  It  was  fortunate  for  Tom 
that  the  officer  on  watch  that  day,  the  officer  ordered 
to  listen  to  the  conversation  between  the  prisoner  and 
his  callers  and  to  make  a  detailed  report  of  it  to  the 
proper  authorities,  was  the  Junker,  von  Ouitzow,  who 
had  been  forced  into  the  Uhlan  tunic  by  his  father 
and  who  had  never  really  quite  forgotten  his  native 
good-humor  and  sentimentality — "damned  civilian  sen 
timentality"  Tom  one  day  had  heard  the  Colonel  char 
acterize  it. 

Mrs.  Wedekind  was  close  to  the  Biblical  span  of 
years.  White  haired  she  was,  and  wrinkled.  But  in 
her  youth  she  had  loved,  very  deeply,  she  had  had  her 
beautiful  summer,  and  when  her  husband  had  died  in 
his  prime,  her  heart,  instead  of  becoming  blunted,  had 
mellowed,  had  become  receptive.  She  drew  people  to 
her,  instinctively.  Added  to  this  was  a  great,  slightly 
malicious,  natural  shrewdness,  a  wonderful  charm  of 
manner,  a  knowledge  of  man's  vulnerable  spots. 

This  knowledge,  this  charm  and  shrewdness,  she 
used  now  on  Captain  von  Quitzow. 

She  flashed  a  rapid  look  from  her  canny  old  eyes 
at  Tom.  But  she  shook  hands  first  with  the  Junker. 

"Ah,  guten  Morgen,  mein  licbster  Herr  Hauptmann! 
It  has  been  such  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  you, 
since  I  had  the  pleasure  of  listening  to  your  charming 
music.  Why,  my  dear,  they  call  you  the  Richard 
Wagner  of  the  Uhlans !  They  do,  positively.  When 
will  you  come  and  play  for  me?  Or — am  I  too  old, 
perhaps,  for  a  dashing  young  Captain  like  yourself?" 

Dashing!  Tom  hid  a  smile.  That  was  the  one 
thing  which  von  Quitzow  was  not,  but  he  took  the 
bait,  blushed,  mumbled  something,  and  bowed  deep 


248  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

over  Mrs.  WedekincTs  right  hand  while  she,  at  the 
same  fraction  of  a  moment,  passed  a  tiny  envelope  to 
Tom.  He  slipped  it  up  his  sleeve. 

Then  came  a  banal  conversation,  lasting  several  min 
utes,  at  the  end  of  which  Mrs.  Wedekind  rose,  shook 
hands  with  both  men  and  went  to  the  door. 

'Thanks  for  having  come,"  said  Tom.  "You  don't 
know  when  my  court-mar tial's  going  to  come  off,  do 
you?" 

Mrs.  Wedekind  looked  straight  at  him. 

"Lieutenant  Graves,"  she  replied,  "I  have  no  idea. 
But  at  times  I  imagine  that  the  Prussian  army  just 
now  is  too — ah — busy  to  waste  precious  days  on  such 
an  altogether  charming  and  altogether  worthless  young 
American  like  yourself !"  And  she  swept  out  with  an 
old-fashioned  curtsy,  followed  by  the  still  blushing 
von  Quitzow,  who  had  not  caught  the  peculiar  inflec 
tion  of  her  parting  speech. 

Tom  had.  But  he  had  no  time  to  think  about  it 
right  then.  For  there  was  the  envelope  which  she  had 
given  him. 

He  tore  it  open,  took  out  a  slip  of  paper,  read. 

There  were  just  a  few  lines,  from  Bertha. 

"I  am  waiting,  waiting!"  she  wrote.  "Waiting  for 
you!  Come  to  me,  dear.  I  need  you.  I  want  you. 
Every  night  I  pray  for  you.  Bertha." 

That  was  all.  But  Tom  kissed  the  letter.  He  felt 
a  hot  tear  running  down  his  cheek,  and  he  was  not 
ashamed  of  it. 

Late  that  evening,  and  again  the  next  morning,  Mrs. 
Wedekind' s  words  came  back  to  him  .  .  .  "The  army 
just  now  is  too  busy  to  waste  precious  days  on  you !" 

Directly  bordering  on  the  military  prison  was  the 


SPANDAU  249 

mess  barrack  of  the  gunner  officers.  Heretofore, 
every  night,  the  great  banqueting  hall  had  been  silent 
and  dark.  The  officers  had  been  busy  day  and  night, 
had  snatched  food  on  the  run,  to  return,  often  past 
midnight,  to  their  quarters  and  sleep  the  dreamless 
sleep  of  utter  exhaustion.  But  to-night  the  room  was 
festively  lit.  Around  nine  o'clock  officers  entered  the 
building,  and,  an  hour  later,  a  banquet  was  in  full 
swing. 

The  windows  had  been  thrown  wide  open,  and  very 
distinctly  Tom  could  hear  the  popping  of  champagne 
corks,  voices,  laughter,  the  clinking  of  glass,  once  in 
a  while  the  band  thumping  and  scraping  and  braying 
a  martial  rhythm — playing  the  old  favorites  of  the 
German  army:  "Maria  Teresa,  geti  nicht  in  den 
Krieg!"  "Der  alte  Der fling er"  "Liitzows  wilde,  ver- 
wegene  Jag&!"  and  many  others. 

Then  there  was  a  silence  and,  after  a  minute,  some 
body  giving  a  toast.  Tom  heard  a  few  words : 

"The  army  is  ready,  meine  H  err  en  Offiziere!  Ready 
to  conquer  .  .  ." 

Then  somebody  closed  the  windows  of  the  banquet 
hall  and  Tom  heard  no  more  except  vague,  indistinct 
sounds.  But  he  was  nervous.  He  paced  up  and 
down. 

War? 

He  shook  his  head. 

He  was  no  more  the  provincial  American,  isolated 
in  the  valor  of  his  ignorance.  During  the  last  months 
he  had  read  the  newspapers,  the  foreign  news,  the  edi 
torials.  He  knew  that  the  German  nation  was  nerv 
ous,  fretful,  on  tenter-hooks,  that  a  change  had  come 
over  it. 

But  ...     War? 

War,  bloodshed,  without  rhyme  or  reason? 


250  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

And  there  was  no  reason.  He  had  followed  the 
news  of  the  world.  No,  no!  War  would  not  come. 
Could,  must  not  come !  It  was  out  of  the  question. 

Yet  again  the  next  morning,  Sunday,  when  Tom, 
escorted  by  von  Quitzow,  went  to  hear  service  in  the 
Garnisonskirche,  the  cantonment  church,  Mrs.  Wede- 
kind's  strange  words  came  back  to  him  .  .  .  And, 
too,  other  words :  Vyvyan's,  Martin  Wedekind's,  the 
Emperor's,  the  little  professor's. 

The  church  was  crowded  with  officers.  Doctor 
Stockl,  the  Kaiser's  favorite,  was  in  the  pulpit. 

He  had  taken  the  sixteenth  chapter  of  Revelations 
for  his  text : 

"And  I  heard  a  great  voice  out  of  the  temple  saying 
to  the  seven  angels,  Go  your  ways,  and  pour  out  the 
vials  of  the  wrath  of  God  upon  the  earth.  .  .  ." 

Later  on : 

"The  sixth  angel  poured  out  his  vial  upon  the  great 
River  Euphrates,  and  the  water  thereof  was  dried  up, 
that  the  way  of  the  Kings  of  the  East  might  be  pre 
pared.  .  .  ." 

The  clergyman  looked  up. 

"The  Kings  of  the  East,  brethren,"  he  went  on,  "the 
Kings  of  the  East !  Our  Emperor !  The  Emperor  of 
Austria-Hungary !  The  Sultan  of  Turkey !  The  three 
Kings  out  of  the  East.  .  .  ." 

Tom  stopped  his  ears.  He  was  not  a  religious  man, 
but  he  had  the  fine,  instinctive  antipathy  of  the  man 
of  the  open  range  against  blasphemy. 

The  clergyman  droned  on.  Tom  could  hear  his 
voice  as  from  a  great  distance,  vague,  wiped  over. 
He  could  not  make  out  the  words. 

But  he  saw  the  faces  of  the  officers. 

seemed  utterly  fascinated,  utterly  enwrapt. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

VIEW-HALLOO 

JUNE  swung  to  its  end  with  a  great,  brassy  avalanche 
of  heat,  the  sudden  heat  of  North  Prussia  that,  re 
flected  by  the  Brandenburg  sand  dunes  as  by  a  glacier, 
dried  up  the  trees  and  grasses  and  caused  the  very  birds 
to  open  their  beaks  and  gasp  for  air. 

Cooped  up  in  his  room  the  greater  part  of  the  day, 
Tom  felt  the  heat  badly.  All  his  life  he  had  taken 
a  great  deal  of  physical  exercise,  mostly  on  horseback, 
and  the  confinement,  in  spite  of  the  daily  evening  stroll, 
began  to  tell  on  him.  Physically,  not  mentally,  for  he 
knew  that  he  must  bear  up. 

Impatient  he  was  when,  as  the  days  passed,  there 
was  no  more  news  from  Bertha  except  an  occasional 
word  from  Ensign  von  Konigsmark  that  he  had  seen 
her  drive  down  Unter  den  Linden,  in  a  carriage, 
hedged  in  on  either  side  by  her  uncle  and  her  aunt. 

Nor  was  he  summoned  to  court-martial.  Forgotten 
he  seemed  by  the  whole  world. 

Outside,  on  the  dusty  Spandau  drill  ground,  the 
troops  were  still  at  their  eternal  training,  running, 
leaping,  charging,  shooting,  sweating,  the  officers  curs 
ing  the  non-coms,  the  latter  passing  on  the  compliment, 
plus  kicks,  to  the  privates.  The  work  was  feverish, 
incessant. 

Even  Captain  von  Quitzow,  who  was  now  altogether 


252  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

stationed  at  Spandau,  heavy,  sentimental  though  he 
was,  caught  something  of  the  hectic  spirit  that  swirled 
about  him  in  unhealthy,  braggart  waves,  and  one  day, 
as  he  wa's  talking  to  Tom,  his  enthusiasm  got  the  best 
of  his  discretion. 

"You  will  see,  Lieutenant  Graves/'  he  said,  pointing 
out  of  the  window  where  the  sun  rays  danced  on  innu 
merable  bayonets,  "when  all  is  ready  we  will  blow 
them  to  hell — poof! — just  like  that !"  making  a  clumsy, 
brutal  gesture  with  his  great,  red,  hairy  fist. 

"Whom?  The  French?  What  have  they  done  to 
you?" 

"Say— Us!-    You  are  one  of  us !" 

"Wait  until  after  the  court-martial,"  laughed  Tom. 
"But  you  haven't  answered.  Whom  are  you  threat 
ening  with  that  dainty  little  paw  of  yours?" 

"Anybody !     Everybody !" 

"Meaning?" 

"Anybody  who  envies  us  our  riches,  our  culture,  our 
civilization,  our  trade,  our  progress,  our  achievement ! 
All  those  foreign  nations  who  hate  us,  who  try  to  put 
stumbling-blocks  into  the  path  of  our  natural  develop 
ment  !"  He  had  learned  the  words  somewhere,  like  a 
parrot,  and  he  believed  in  their  wisdom,  their  justice 
and  truth,  implicitly,  with  all  his  top-heavy  Teuton 
soul.  "Everybody  wants  to  hurt  us  Germans !"  he 
added,  half  plaintively,  half  defiantly. 

"Ah — cut  it  out !  Nobody  wants  to  hurt  you.  You 
are  only  hurting  yourselves.  The  world  at  large  is  too 
busy  looking  after  its  own  affairs,  von  Quitzow." 

"Well — perhaps.  But  just  the  same — we  are  ready" 
— and  again  he  quoted  from  some  unknown  authority 
— "with  every  gill  of  red  fighting  blood,  with  every 
bolt  and  nut  and  wheel  of  war  machinery,  with  every 
howitzer  and  caisson,  with  every  Zeppelin  and  air- 


VIEW-HALLOO  253 

plane,  with  every  haversack  and  sabretache!  With 
every  last  ounce  of  strength  and  discipline  and  effi 
ciency  and  patriotism!  We  will  hurl  it  all,  all  into 
the  finishing  fight!" 

Tom  laughed. 

"Cut  out  the  Fourth  of  July  dope,"  he  said,  "it's  got 
whiskers,"  but,  secretly,  his  uneasiness  increased. 

Towards  the  end  of  that  week,  watching  from  his 
window  as  usual,  he  was  surprised  to  see  a  generous 
sprinkling  of  strange  uniforms  amongst  those  of  the 
Germans. 

There  were  some  tall,  very  slight  men,  with  peaked, 
coquettish  caps,  short,  tight  white  tunics  braided  pro 
fusely  with  gold,  and  high  lacquered  riding-boots. 
Others  in  tailed,  bottle-green  jackets  with  leather 
shorts  and  leggings,  and  bow-legged  cavalrymen  in 
black  with  bright  orange  plastrons.  Still  others  were 
olive  complexioned  men,  very  silent,  with  beady  eyes, 
high  cheek  bones,  and  a  long,  swaggering  stride.  They 
were  mostly  dressed  in  black.  Black,  too,  was  the 
frogging  and  the  fur  on  their  tunics,  black  their  tall, 
fur  caps.  Still  others  were  short  men,  extremely 
broad  and  heavy,  gnarled  looking  like  peasants,  in  light 
blue  uniforms  with  a  great  deal  of  vermilion  and 
silver. 

"Austrians,"  explained  von  Quitzow  when  Tom  ap 
pealed  to  him,  "also  Turks  and  Bulgarians." 

"Why,"  smiled  the  Westerner,  "if  you're  so  all- 
fired  set  on  fighting  all  the  world,  what's  the  big  idea 
of  putting  all  these  foreign  ginks  wise  to  your  mili 
tary  preparations?" 

The  Captain  raised  a  didactic  hand. 

"They  are  our  friends,  our  brothers-in-arms.  Their 
sovereigns  are  the  friends  of  His  All-Gracious  Majesty 
the  Kaiser." 


254  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Seems  to  be  hard  up  for  friends,"  mumbled  the 
irrepressible  Tom. 

Thus  Tom  composed  his  soul  in  peace,  until  one  day 
(and  afterwards  he  could  never  quite  explain  why  he 
did  it;  perhaps  it  was  a  calling,  calling  back  to  the 
range  life,  the  free  life,  the  zest  and  sweep  and  tang 
of  the  open;  perhaps  it  was  an  overpowering  desire 
to  see  Bertha,  to  speak  to  her,  to  make  sure  that  she 
was  all  right;  perhaps  it  was  the  suggestion  of  the 
saddled  horse  which  had  stopped  directly  beneath  his 
window) — until  one  day  his  patience  snapped,  sud 
denly,  jarringly. 

It  had  been  another  day  of  maneuvering,  charges 
and  counter-charges,  the  phutt-phutt  of  machine  guns, 
the  deeper  notes  of  great  guns  and  trench  mortars 
warming  up  to  the  task. 

A  regiment  of  cavalry  had  been  thrown  into  the 
iron  game.  They  came  on,  straight,  lances  at  the 
carry,  thundering  across  the  heat-baked  drill  ground. 
They  rode  mostly  new  mounts,  not  yet  broken  to  the 
roll  and  sob  of  the  guns,  and  many  reared,  bucked, 
plunged,  threw  their  riders  and  danced  on,  fretting, 
foaming,  mad,  in  all  directions. 

There  was  one  horse  in  particular — a  great,  black 
half -hunter  with  broad  back  and  streaming  tail.  A 
stout  General  was  riding  it,  spurring  and  whipping  it 
on  brutally.  Tom  was  watching  from  the  window  of 
his  room  with  his  keen  eyes. 

He  was  anxious — more  for  the  horse,  than  for  the 
man.  He  clenched  his  fists. 

"Stop,  you  fool !"  he  said  under  his  breath.  "Leave 
those  spurs  be !  That  isn't  the  way  ..." 

vThen  there  was  a  cry,  followed  by  shouts,  yells, 
hectic  words  of  warning.  LThe  half -hunter,  maddened 


VIEW-HALLOO  255 

to  frenzy,  took  the  bit  between  its  teeth,  sailed  along 
like  a  ship  under  canvas,  cleared  at  a  magnificent  jump 
a  shiny,  blue-gray  gun  barrel,  and  threw  its  rider,  head 
foremost,  amongst  the  caissons. 

More  cries.     Then  a  voice : 

"Lieber  Himmel!     Dcr  Prinz!" 

And  Tom  knew.  The  rider  was  Prinz  Ludwig 
Karl  of  Hohenzollern,  cousin  to  the  Emperor,  and 
he  was  not  surprised  at  the  excitement  which  fol 
lowed. 

A  staff  officer  blew  a  whistle.  A  trumpet  called. 
Everybody  ran  to  the  spot  where  the  Prince  lay  pros 
trate.  The  war  game  was  forgotten.  Even  the  sen 
try  outside  Tom's  room  rushed  out  and  away. 

Tom,  half  turning,  saw  him  run  down  the  hall  as 
fast  as  he  could.  The  next  moment,  turning  back  to 
the  window,  he  saw  directly  beneath  it  the  Prince's 
horse  standing  there,  trembling  in  every  limb,  great 
brown  eyes  half-glazed  with  fright  and  pain,  saddle 
slipped  a  little  to  one  side. 

And  Tom  thought  and  acted  in  a  fraction  of  a 
second. 

Out  of  the  room !  Down  the  hall !  Past  the  outer 
sentry,  who  saw  nothing  but  a  flash  of  blue  and  crim 
son  uniform! 

Quickly  his  hands  busied  themselves  with  the  saddle 
girth.  The  saddle  came  off — and  Tom  was  up  and 
away! 

Nobody  paid  any  attention  to  him.  They  were 
crowding  around  the  Prince,  and  Tom,  on  horseback, 
was  the  Tom  he  had  been  on  his  native  range — master 
of  himself,  the  animal,  the  dust  and  stones  that  flew 
away  to  right  and  left  as  the  horse,  feeling  the  rider's 
softly  strong  hand,  hearing  his  caressing  voice,  leaped 
on  with  a  great  gathering  of  speed — on  to  Berlin! 


256  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

All  afternoon  and  evening  Tom  rode.  It  was 
around  midnight  when  he  turned  into  the  outer  sub 
urbs,  and  it  was  then  that  a  realization  of  his  des 
perate  position  came  to  him. 

The  Web! 

He  remembered  Vyvyan's  words. 

And  what  did  the  Web  want  of  him — stretching, 
knitting,  crushing,  looping  .  .  .  ? 

His  property,  his  mine,  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory, 
for  whatever  mysterious  reasons? 

Why,  they  had  that.  They  had  cheated  him  out  of 
it.  The  meshes  of  the  Web  were  about  it,  tightly, 
crushingly,  like  the  slimy,  merciless  arms  of  a  giant 
octopus. 

And  what  else  did  the  Web  want? 

Tom  gave  a  bitter  laugh.  He  knew.  No  use  try 
ing  to  fool  himself. 

His  life! 

That  was  the  stake ! 

Well— he'd  fight  for  it! 

They  had  tried  to  get  him  by  every  means  in  their 
power.  They  had  not  even  stopped  short  of  murder, 
for  there  was  that  duel — the  Baron's  shot  before  the 
umpire's  word  to  fire.  He  had  fooled  them  and,  by 
God !  he'd  fool  them  again. 

But  how?  What  could  he  do?  To  whom  could 
he  turn? 

If  before  he  had  been  in  danger  of  his  life,  he  was 
doubly  so  now.  For  now  he  was  an  outlaw.  He  had 
committed  the  worst  crime  on  the  Prussian  military 
calendar.  Everybody's  hand  would  be  against  his. 

And — who  could  help  him? 

Bertha?     Old  Mrs.  \Vedekind? 

No!  That  wasn't  his  sort  of  a  game.  He  could 
not  compromise  women,  endanger  them. 


VIEW-HALLOO  257 

Vyvyan?     Was  away. 

The  man  with  the  silver  ring?  That,  too,  was  hope 
less.  By  this  time  the  Spandau  authorities  would 
know  of  his  get-away,  and  the  British  Embassy,  judg 
ing  from  his  former  experience,  was  the  very  place 
they  would  watch  most  carefully. 

Poole?  The  man  would  faint  of  fright,  would  not 
lift  his  little  finger  to  help  him. 

He  had  not  a  cent  in.  his  pockets,  nothing  but  the 
uniform.  Not  even  his  saber,  which  had  been  taken 
away  from  him  at  the  time  of  his  arrest.  And  an  of 
ficer  without  his  sword  was  an  object  of  suspicion. 
He  might  be  able  to  get  into  communication  with  Mc 
Caffrey.  The  barkeeper  was  sure  to  lend  him  clothes 
and  money.  Here  was  his  chance  to  get  out  of  Ger 
many. 

And  then  he  thought  of  Bertha.  Without  her  he 
could  not  leave  the  country.  Could  not.  Would  not ! 

What  then? 

The  first  thing  to  do  would  be  to  get  rid  of  his  horse. 
So  he  turned  west,  back  to  the  beginning  of  the  Span 
dau  road,  dismounted,  and  slapped  the  animal  smartly 
across  the  withers.  Silently  he  prayed  that  the  horse 
might  be  a  "homer,"  the  sort  that,  allowed  to  travel 
free,  makes  straight  for  the  accustomed  stable,  not  to 
forget  the  accustomed  oats. 

"Thank  God !"  he  whispered,  as  the  horse  whinnied 
softly,  and  was  off  to  the  west,  towards  Spandau,  at 
an  easy,  graceful  canter. 

On  foot  Tom  returned  to  the  suburbs,  crossed  them, 
reached  the  Westend. 

Then  the  courage  of  despair  came  to  him.  Also 
memories. 

Back  home,  in  the  West,  when  he  had  been  a  boy, 
there  had  been  a  famous  Bad  Man,  Silvertongue 


258  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Charley  by  name.  Charley  had  not  killed  very  often. 
His  argument  had  usually  been  more  mild,  yet  more 
subtle,  more  persuasive,  and  (Tom  laughed  suddenly) 
somehow  it  would  be  appreciated  in  Germany,  for 
here  they  fought  with  the  same  weapon — as  in  the 
case  of  Martin  and  Bertha  Wedekind. 

He  walked  on,  turned  into  the  Dahlmann  Strasse, 
and  rang  the  night  bell  of  the  Colonel's  apartment. 

The  door  was  opened,  he  walked  upstairs,  and  the 
sleepy  Bursche  let  him  in. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  the  Colonel,  at  once.  Most 
important,"  he  snarled. 

"Zu  Befehl,  Herr  Leutnant!" 

The  Bursche  left,  and  Tom  looked  rapidly  about 
him.  He  needed  a  weapon. 

There  was  the  Colonel's  writing-desk.  He  tried 
drawer  after  drawer  until  finally  he  found  what  he 
wanted — a  heavy  cavalry  revolver.  He  made  sure 
that  it  was  loaded. 

The  next  moment  the  Colonel  came  in,  dressed  in 
pajamas  and  slippers. 

His  first  word  was  a  curse,  a  terrible  threat : 

"What  d'you  mean,  Lieutenant  Graves?  Himmel- 
donnerwetter!  Who  let  you  out  of  Fe  stung? 
Who  .  .  ." 

"Shut  up!"  drawled  Tom,  and  up  came  his  gun  to 
emphasize  the  command.  "No,  no!"  as  the  Colonel 
was  about  to  bluster  again,  "this  time  I  hold  the  win 
ning  ace — and  I'm  going  to  rake  in  the  pot.  I  tell 
you  what  you  are  going  to  do.  You  are  going  to 
dress,  under  my  supervision.  You  are  going  to  give 
me  all  the  money  in  the  house,  call  Bertha,  very  gently, 
without  waking  up  the  rest  of  the  household,  and  then 
you  are  going  to  accompany  both  of  us  downstairs, 
enter  a  taxicab,  drive  with  us  to  the  station.  There 


VIEW-HALLOO  259 

Bertha  is  going  to  buy  the  tickets.     A  private  com 
partment,  for  the  frontier,  see?" 

"But  .  .  ." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  to  shut  up,  you  bastard?"  Tom 
took  a  firmer  hold  on  his  gun.  "I'm  going  to  be  right 
close  to  you  straight  through.  We'll  walk  arm  in 
arm,  ride  arm  in  arm,  and,  by  God !  eat  arm  in  arm — 
and  you'll  always  feel  this  little  bit  of  steel  pressing 
into  your  ribs.  Nobody'll  know.  That  big  silver- 
gray  uniform  cape  of  mine — and  yours — will  hide  that 
part  all  right,  all  right.  And — no  fooling — my  finger 
itches.  I've  got  a  peculiar  disease  called  Trigger- 
fmgeritis  where  I  was  raised.  Get  me,  don't  you? 
Now — lead  on !  First  we'll  go  to  your  room  and  have 
you  dressed  for  the  slaughter." 

Tom's  argument  was  persuasive.  Silently,  without 
saying  a  word,  without  making  an  unnecessary  gesture, 
the  Colonel  preceded  him  to  his  dressing-room,  arm 
in  arm  with  him,  on  the  way,  obeying  the  pressure  of 
the  revolver,  telling  the  Bursche  to  go  back  to  bed,  and 
put  on  his  uniform. 

"Now  we'll  call  Bertha,"  Tom  went  on.  "Where 
is  her  room?" 

"Over  there."     The  Colonel  pointed. 

"All  right."  Tom  pressed  the  revolver  into  the 
small  of  the  other's  back.  "Call  her.  Be  careful 
what  you  say.  If  this  is  somebody  else's  room,  God 
help  you !" 

"Bertha,  Bertha,"  whispered  the  Colonel,  and  then, 
a  little  louder :  "Oh,  Bertha !" 

"Yes,  Uncle?"  came  a  sleepy  voice. 

"Come  here  a  moment." 

There  was  a  rustle  of  clothes  and  a  few  seconds 
later  Bertha  appeared,  in  a  loose  dressing-robe,  her 
hair  a  curly,  unruly,  shimmering  mass. 


2<5o  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

She  was  still  half  asleep. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  Then,  seeing  Tom :  "Why 
—Tom  .  .  .  ?" 

"No  time  to  explain/'  replied  the  Westerner. 
"You've  got  to  get  into  your  clothes  quickly.  Throw 
some  things  into  a  bag.  We're  going  to  take  a  little 
trip  .  .  ." 

"A  little  trip?" 

"Yes.  To  the  French  frontier.  The  three  of  us. 
They  kidnapped  you,  those  darned  Dutchmen,  held  you 
as  a  hostage,  eh?  Well,  two  can  play  at  the  same 
game,  by  Ginger,  and  ..." 

Very  suddenly  the  Colonel  twisted  and  turned,  was 
about  to  shout  for  help,  and  Tom  brought  up  his  gun. 

"No,  you  don't!"  he  said  in  a  low,  minatory  voice. 
"Look  out.  This  thing's  going  to  go  off  sure !" 

And  then,  just  as  he  was  about  to  fire:  "Oh,  my 
God!" 

For  the  Colonel,  agile  in  spite  of  his  weight,  had 
rapidly  shifted  his  position,  had  picked  up  Bertha,  was 
holding  her  against  his  breast,  like  a  shield. 

Wedekind  laughed. 

"Shoot,  why  don't  you?" 

"I—     God  da—" 

"Don't  swear  in  the  presence  of  a  lady,"  sneered  the 
German.  "The  winning  card?  Have  you?  I  am 
afraid  you  have  been  a  little  too  previous."  He  raised 
his  voice  to  a  shout:  "Franz!  Franz!"  he  called  the 
Bursche.  "Come  in  here — no,  wait — bring  the  jani 
tor  with  you  and  a  couple  of  other  stout  fellows. 
Bring  some  ropes,  too,  while  you're  about  it.  We've 
got  a  wild  American  in  here." 

And,  five  minutes  later,  when  Tom  was  stretched  on 
the  leather  couch  in  the  Colonel's  study,  tied,  helpless, 
the  German  said : 


VIEW-HALLOO  261 

"I  don't  think  you'll  be  so  very  wild  in  the  future. 
You're  going  to  be  as  quiet  as  a  mouse.  For  you're 
going  to  be  dead.  This  thing  is  going  to  be  finished 
in  a  hurry.  Court-martial  to-morrow.  And  a  firing 
squad  the  day  after.  Good  night!  Sweet  dreams!" 

And  Tom  did  sleep,  like  the  simple,  fearless  man 
he  was.  He  had  done  his  best,  had  tried  to  do  his 
best,  for  the  girl  he  loved,  for  Martin  Wedekind,  for 
Vyvyan,  for  himself. 

He  had  failed.     The  odds  had  been  too  great. 

He,  alone,  had  fought  the  Web. 

And  the  Web  had  won. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 
THE  COLONEL'S  PROPOSAL 

THERE  was  no  doubt  of  the  verdict  from  the  mo 
ment  Tom  entered  the  large,  gray  court-room  of  the 
Kriegsgericht,  armed  guards  on  either  side  and  an 
officer  with  drawn  saber  walking  ahead,  straight 
through  the  Captain  Prosecutor's  indictment,  the  hear 
ing  of  the  witnesses  all  telling  the  same  tale,  his  re 
fusal  to  avail  himself  of  the  services  of  a  Kriegs- 
gerichtadvokat,  a  military  lawyer,  his  refusal  even  to 
answer  a  single  one  of  the  questions  put  to  him  by  the 
Captain  Prosecutor  and  the  three  Generals  who  acted 
as  judges,  to  the  moment  when  the  presiding  judge, 
General  von  Kanitz,  rose,  put  on  his  helmet,  and 
announced  with  a  clear  voice  that  defendant  was  guilty 
of  insubordination,  killing  a  brother  officer  in  a  duel, 
breaking  out  of  Fe >  stung,  insulting  a  superior  officer, 
threatening  him  with  death,  and  trying  to  kidnap  him. 

The  punishment,  according  to  the  Prussian  Military 
Law  Code,  paragraph  578,  reenforced  by  paragraphs 
789  and  452,  and  doubly  reenforced  by  paragraphs 
66 1,  107  and  322,  was — Death! 

The  times  being  what  they  were,  the  enemy  beyond 
the  frontier  preparing  for  war,  the  General  went  on, 
defendant  must  show  cause  at  once  for  reopening  the 
case  or  setting  aside  the  judgment  or  registering  an 

appeal. 

262 


THE  COLONEL'S  PROPOSAL          263 

Defendant  shook  his  head. 

Furthermore,  continued  the  General,  defendant  had 
the  right  to  beg  His  All-Gracious  Majesty  the  Kaiser 
for  a  reprieve  .  .  . 

"Quite  useless !"  cut  in  the  Captain  Prosecutor. 

"Order,  order !"  cried  the  General. 

And  then  Tom,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  en 
tered  the  court-room,  opened  his  lips.  He  spoke — in 
good,  plain  American : 

"I  agree  with  the  Prosecutor,"  he  said.  "You  just 
bet  your  boots  I  do.  Why,"  looking  straight  at  the 
presiding  judge,  "you  damned  sanctimonious  hum 
bugs  with  your  talk  of  reprieve — forget  it!  Cut  it 
out!  You've  railroaded  me!" 

Officers  rushed  up  to  him,  threatening,  waving  sa 
bers,  ordering  him  to  be  silent,  but  he  went  right  on, 
raising  his  voice  clear  above  the  turmoil : 

"Yep!  You've  cooked  up  the  whole  thing,  you 
saber-rattling,  cowardly  coyotes !  I'm  not  fool  enough 
to  kick  against  the  impossible — I'd  have  less  chance 
than  a  hog  on  ice !" 

And  he  turned  on  his  heels,  and  marched  out  be 
tween  the  armed  guards. 

All  that  afternoon,  half  through  the  night,  he  paced 
up  and  down  the  stone-flagged  floor  of  his  cell. 

Death — in  the  morning! 

A  firing  squad !  The  end  of  his  life,  his  youth,  his 
ambition,  his  love! 

The  final  gift  of  the  Hoodoos — rightly  named,  he 
thought. 

There  was  nothing  vainglorious,  nothing  romantic 
about  Tom  Graves.  But  he  said  to  himself  that  he 
\vould  die  like  a  man.  He'd  be  true  to  his  traditions, 
his  ancestors,  his  country — true  to  his  love. 


264  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Finally  he  fell  asleep,  and  it  was  the  rattle  of  the 
keys  in  the  steel  door  that  startled  him  into  wakeful- 
ness. 

Haggard  rays  of  sunlight  were  filtering  in  through 
the  window  high  up  on  the  wall — well — he  shrugged 
his  shoulders — soon  there  would  be  darkness.  The 
light  was  over. 

"All  right.  I'm  all  ready  for  the  last  act,"  he  said 
as  the  door  opened. 

Then  he  drew  back  in  surprise.  He  had  expected 
armed  sentries  commanded  by  a  Captain.  But  only 
two  men  came  in:  Colonel  Wedekind,  accompanied 
by  Ensign  Baron  von  Konigsmark  who,  note-book  and 
pencil  ready  to  hand,  was  evidently  acting  as  the  for 
mer's  secretary. 

"What's  up  ?"  asked  Tom.  "Going  to  court-martial 
me  all  over  again?  You  can  only  murder  me  once, 
you  know." 

Then  he  gave  a  cry  of  utter  amazement.  For  the 
Colonel  smiled.  He  shook  Tom's  hand. 

"Guten  M  or  gen,  Herr  Leutnant!"  he  said  affably. 

And,  before  Tom  knew  what  to  say,  the  German 
went  on : 

"Well,  did  the  confinement  and  the  court-martial 
cool  your  hot  blood  a  little  ?" 

"Cut  out  the  heavy  sarcasm,"  replied  Torn.  "It 
isn't  your  line." 

"Sarcasm?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Only — "  he  smiled, 
"I  do  believe  that  loneliness,  confinement,  and  a  good 
scare  is  the  best  medicine  in  the  world  for  an  impa 
tient  young  cavalier  like  you.  And  now — "  he  mo 
tioned  to  the  Ensign,  who  at  once  got  busy  with  note 
book  and  pencil,  taking  down  the  words,  "Lieutenant 
Graves !" 

"Well?"  asked  Tom,  who  knew  less  than  ever  what 


THE  COLONEL'S  PROPOSAL          265 

to  make  of  the  other's  ingratiating  manner.  "What's 
up?  Can  it  be  that  you've  conscience  troubles  and 
that  you're  sorry  for  that  bit  of — oh — Montana  justice 
you  pulled  off  yesterday  in  the  court-martial?  Hang 
your  prisoner  first,  and  try  him  afterwards  ?" 

"No,  no,"  Wedekind  went  on  in  the  same  affable, 
half-playful  manner.  "I  have  a  proposition  to  make 
to  you,  and  I  wish  you  would  think  about  it  very  seri 
ously.  In  fact,  I  am  sure  you  will  not  say  no." 

"Don't  you  count  your  chickens  before  they're 
hatched — every  darned,  fluffy  one  of  'em,"  drawled  the 
Westerner. 

"Ah!"  smiled  the  Colonel.  "I  see  that  you  have 
kept  your  old  jesting  mood,  even  in  the  face  of  death. 
Charming,  perfectly  charming,  my  dear  sir!" 

"Well?" 

Something  caused  Tom  to  look  at  the  Ensign.  His 
head  was  bent  over  the  note-book,  his  pencil  busily 
scratching.  But  there  was  something  in  the  boy's  at 
titude,  in  the  vivid  blush  that  mantled  his  forehead, 
which  convinced  Tom  that  he  was  uneasy.  Perhaps 
he  was  ashamed  of  the  Colonel's  suave,  hypocritical 
manner.  Perhaps  he  knew  that  the  latter  had  set 
some  artfully  prepared  trap,  had  knotted  another  noose 
in  the  Web. 

All  right.  He  would  be  careful,  decided  Tom,  and 
he  looked  inquiringly  at  Wedekind,  who  continued : 

"I  am  speaking  in  the  name  of  the  army,  the  Gov 
ernment,  the  Emperor  himself.  We  are  willing  to — 
na,  sagen  wir  'mal — squash  all  these  disagreeable 
court-martial  proceedings  against  you.  We  are  even 
willing  to  accept  your  resignation  from  the  army  with 
honor,  and  to  pay  you  liberally,  more  than  liberally, 
for  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory." 

"Gosh !    What's  the  use  of  paying  for  a  thing  after 


266  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

you've  swiped  it?"  interrupted  Tom  sarcastically,  but 
the  other  went  on  unheeding: 

"We  will  even  pay  you  an  extra  bonus  and  confer 
upon  you  the  Order  Pour  Le  Merit e  of  the  second 
class.  For  one  condition!" 

"Shoot  it!" 

"We  need  your  help." 

"Well  ?     Go  on.     Don't  be  so  mysterious !" 

"Oh,  there's  nothing  mysterious  about  it.  All  we 
want  of  you  is  to  have  you  transfer,  in  your  name,  to 
American  flag  and  registry  a  certain  line  of  fast 
freighters  running  between  Tacoma  and  Hamburg 
.  .  .  though,"  he  corrected  himself,  "perhaps  the  port 
of  destination  won't  always  be  Hamburg.  It  may 
change  to  some  other  port." 

Tom  looked  up.  He  remembered  Martin  Wede- 
kind's  letter.  The  thing  puzzled  him.  He  could  not 
imagine  why  it  should  be  so  hard  to  find  somebody  in 
the  United  States,  most  likely  a  German-American, 
who  would  be  willing  to  play  cat's-paw  for  the  German 
Government,  and  he  said  something  of  the  sort. 

"Why  pick  on  me?"  he  asked.  "The  woods  are 
full  of  people  ready  to  earn  a  dishonest  penny." 

The  Colonel  winked  at  him  in  a  manner  that  said, 
more  plainly  than  words,  that  Tom  knew  more  than 
he  tried  to  make  believe. 

"Lieutenant  Graves,"  he  replied,  "I'll  put  my  cards 
on  the  table,  face  up.  The  British  Government  does 
not  want  these  ships  to  get  to  their  destination.  They 
are  suspicious,  thanks  to  your  friend  Vyvyan.  But 
the  very  fact  that  you  are  Vyvyan's  friend  will  dis 
arm  their  suspicions,  and  we  will  make  assurance  dou 
bly  sure  by  changing  the  ships'  names,  by  making  one 
or  two  other  small  changes.  In  fact,  we  have  already 
done  so." 


THE  COLONEL'S  PROPOSAL          267 

"Oh?     Pretty  sure  I  would  accept,  eh?" 

The  Colonel  smiled. 

"My  dear  sir,  remember  the  firing  squad.  Of  course 
I  am  sure !" 

Tom  was  thinking  rapidly.  Suddenly  he  smiled  to 
himself.  He  considered  that  more  than  one  can  play 
at  the  ancient  game  of  double  cross. 

"Colonel,"  he  said,  "I  have  half  a  mind  to  close  on 
that  deal  .  .  ." 

"Delighted,  delighted,  my  dear  sir!"  Wedekind 
rose.  He  was  pleasurably  excited.  Fervently  he 
shook  Tom's  hands.  "Why,  it's  splendid.  Ganz 
famos!  Of  course  we  will  all  be  sorry  to  see  you 
leave  Germany.  But  it  will  be  for  your  own  best 
interests.  Why — everybody  likes  you  here.  Only 
this  morning  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede  told  me  that 
you  .  .  ." 

The  words  were  out.  He  could  not  choke  them 
back. 

There  was  a  pall  of  utter  silence,  broken  by  Tom's 
incredulous : 

"Von  G6tz-Wrrede?     I  thought  he  was  dead!" 

"Let  me  explain,  my  dear  sir,"  the  Colonel  cut  in, 
clumsily.  "The  Baron  .  .  ." 

"A  frame-up,  eh  ?"  continued  Tom,  icily.  "A  dirty, 
stinking  trick  to  get  me,  eh?" 

"No,  no !     Please  let  me  explain.     I  will  .  .  ." 

"Lieutenant  Graves  is  right!" 

It  was  the  little  Ensign  speaking.  All  during  the 
interview  he  had  felt  in  his  inner  conscience  the  piti 
less  Prussian  discipline  fighting  against  a  fierce  desire 
to  blurt  out  the  truth  whatever  the  consequences. 

And  he  did  so  now,  with  a  sort  of  hot,  angry  boy 
ishness  : 

"I  am  sorry,  Colonel,"  he  said.     "I  am  afraid  I  am 


268  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

not  a  very  good  officer,  perhaps  not  even  a  very  good 
Prussian.  I  am  one  of  those  terribly  unsatisfactory 
people  whose  soul  and  brain  are  half  the  time  at  odds. 
I  can't  help  it."  He  turned  to  the  Westerner.  "Yes. 
You  are  right.  The  whole  thing  was  a  trap !" 

Tom  was  staring  straight  at  the  Colonel. 

"What  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself  ?"  he  asked 
thickly;  and  he  was  absolutely  unprepared  for  the 
man's  serene,  merry,  joyous  arrogance. 

"Nothing,  my  dear  sir.  The  cat's  out  of  the  bag. 
I  admit  it.  I.  did  it  acting  under  orders,  for  the  sake 
of  the  Fatherland.  But" — with  a  gesture,  as  if  brush 
ing  aside  a  regrettable,  but  wholly  negligible  fact — "it 
doesn't  matter.  It  doesn't  change  the  main  question 
under  discussion.  You  accept  my  proposal?" 

"Yesterday  you  were  all  for  a  firing  squad !" 

"Yes,  yes — but — something  has  happened,  condi 
tions  have  changed.  You  accept?" 

Tom  looked  at  him  with  something  like  admiration 
for  the  man's  colossal,  brutal,  sprawling  insolence. 
His  own  wits  were  at  fever  heat.  Only  one  thing 
mattered — to  regain  his  own  liberty,  his  very  life,  to 
help  Bertha  get  out  of  the  country  and,  if  possible,  to 
frustrate  the  German  designs,  whatever  they  were,  in 
connection  with  the  line  of  ships,  with  the  mine. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "the  joke's  on  me." 

"That's  the  spirit,"  from  the  Colonel.  "And  my 
little  proposition?" 

"It's  O.  K.  for  me  ...     On  one  condition !" 

Wredekind  wagged  a  coquettish  finger. 

"I  know  your  condition,  my  dear  sir,  and  I  regret 
I  cannot  comply  with  it.  You  want  to  take  my  niece 
back  to  America  with  you.  Impossible!  I  do  not 
mean — well — to  seem  to  doubt  you.  But  I  am  in  the 
habit  of  playing  safe.  As  long  as  Bertha  is  in  Ger- 


THE  COLONEL'S  PROPOSAL          269 

many,  I  have  a  lever  on  your  emotions,  my  dear  sir. 
You  will  be  afraid  to — pardon  me — try  to  deceive  us. 
No,  no !  I  know  your  condition !" 

The  Colonel  had  been  right  in  his  guess.  But  Tom 
had  not  been  a  poker  expert  for  nothing.  Before  this, 
about  to  play  a  pat  hand,  he  had  suddenly  changed  his 
mind  and  bought  cards  after  watching  the  other  man's 
draw. 

, That's  what  he  did  now. 

"You're  wrong,  Colonel,"  he  said.  "I  am  fond  of 
your  niece.  I  don't  deny  it.  But  her  returning  to 
America  with  me  wasn't  the  condition  I  want  to  make. 
You  see,  I  do  not  want  to  return  to  America  myself." 

"What?     You  .  .  ." 

"Sure.  Don't  you  understand  ?"  Tom's  voice  came 
strong  and  clear  and  sincere.  "I  like  Germany.  I  am 
mad  about  the  army,  the  uniform,  the  chance  to  see  a 
bit  of  a  bully  old  scrap.  I  guess,  horses  apart,  I 
haven't  been  much  good  as  an  officer  in  the  past.  But 
I'll  try  my  darnedest  in  the  future,  Colonel.  Give  me 
another  chance.  Let  me  stick  to  Germany  and  the 
Uhlans !  That's  my  condition !" 

Tom  had  succeeded  beyond  his  hopes.  The  Colonel 
shook  his  hands  again  and  again,  pump-handle  fashion. 

"Grossartig!  Kolossal!"  he  bellowed.  "I  shall 
speak  of  it  to  His  All-Gracious  Majesty.  The  Father 
land  needs  men  such  as  you.  Why" — with  a  severe 
side  glance  at  the  little  Ensign — "you  dan  set  an  exam 
ple  in  patriotism  to  many  a  native-born  Prussian." 
He  clicked  his  heels  and  saluted.  "I  thank  you  in  the 
name  of  the  Uhlans,  in  the  name  of  the  army,  the 
name  of  the  Emperor.  And  now — let's  go  back  to 
business — your  condition  is  accepted." 

He  drew  some  papers  from  his  pocket.  Tom  read 
through  them.  They  were  an  official  bill  of  sale  of 


2;o  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

six  ten-thousand-ton  ships,  the  Walla  Walla,  Seattle, 
Carson  City,  Salt  Lake  City,  Santa  Rosa  and  Denver, 
all  built  in  American  yards,  from  the  Hamburg- 
American  Line  to  one  Tom  Graves,  a  citizen  of  the 
United  States,  Another  paper  agreed  to  the  transfer 
of  these  same  ships  to  American  registry. 

Tom  looked  up,  pen  in  hand.  He  remember  Poolers 
repeated  protests  that  he  had  lost  his  citizenship  by 
donning  the  blue  and  crimson  of  the  Uhlans.  He  said 
something  of  the  kind. 

"Sure  that's  all  right?  It  says  here  that  I  am  an 
American  citizen/' 

The  Colonel  smiled. 

"Our  army  has  many  experts,"  he  said.  "They  are 
not  all  experts  with  the  sword.  Some  are  .  .  ." 

"Experts  with  the  pen.  I  get  you.  Experts  at 
forgery.  Well — here  goes !"  and  the  Westerner  signed 
both  papers  with  a  firm  hand,  at  the  same  time  read 
ing  again  the  names  of  the  ships.  He  did  not  mean 
to  forget  them. 

Once  more  the  Colonel  shook  hands. 

"You  will  be  released  at  once,"  he  said.  "Back  with 
your  old  regiment." 

"Any  chance  of  seeing  Bertha?" 

"To  be  sure.  You  may  call.  But — you  under 
stand  .  .  ." 

"You  bet.  I  won't  be  allowed  to  see  her  alone. 
[That's  all  right." 

Tom  smiled  when  he  was  again  by  himself. 

He  had  accomplished  one  thing.  He  was  a  free 
man  once  more,  with  a  free  man's  chance — the  chance 
to  take  Bertha  away  from  Germany,  home  to  America. 

Only  one  thing  puzzled  him. 

How  would  he  be  able  to  communicate  to  Lord 


THE  COLONEL'S  PROPOSAL          271 

Vyvyan  the  names  of  certain  ships  that  had  recently 
changed  names,  flags,  and  ownership? 

Why  there  was  the  little  silver  ring  with  the  letters 
B.  E.  D. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

B.  E.  D. 

THAT  afternoon,  it  was  the  second  of  July,  a  little 
over  five  weeks  before  the  Germans  tore  up  the  Scrap 
of  Paper  and  plunged  the  world  into  a  cauldron  of 
blood,  Tom  Graves  was  free  once  more. 

At  the  door  he  was  met  by  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede, 
whose  right  wrist  had  healed  and  whose  left  was  still 
in  a  sling,  and  who  acted  as  if  nothing  out  of  the  way 
had  happened,  as  if  the  whole  episode,  from  the  orig 
inal  insult  to  his  faked-up  death,  had  been  nothing  but 
an  amiable  idiosyncrasy — on  the  Westerner's  part, 
well  understood.  He  told  Tom  that  all  officers'  pri 
vate  residence  permits  had  been  canceled. 

"You'll  have  to  live  at  barracks  with  the  rest  of 
us,  old  fellow.  The  army  is  frightfully  busy,  putting 
a  polish  on  itself." 

"I  know." 

The  other  had  spoken  the  truth,  and  Tom  was 
aware  of  it.  It  was  not  because  he  was  under  suspi 
cion  that  he  had  to  move  his  traps  to  a  bare  ten-by- 
twelve  square  of  cement,  varnished  wood,  and  iron 
cot  in  the  Uhlan  barracks.  For  all  the  other  officers 
lived  there  too,  from  the  Colonel  down  to  the  youngest 
Ensign  just  gazetted  from  the  Lichterfelde  Cadets 
School.  Drill  was  continuous,  pitiless,  as  he  had 
watched  it  from  his  window  at  Spandau.  Long,  dusty 

272 


B.  E.  D.  273 

rides  in  the  morning.  Knock  off  at  noon  for  a  bite, 
followed  by  lance  and  saber  drill.  Then  special  in 
struction  in  various  subjects,  examinations  in  French, 
map  making,  and  kindred  topics.  More  drill  until 
supper  time,  and  nearly  every  night,  after  taps,  a  final 
lecture  by  picked,  spectacled  Staff  officers  on  the  tech 
nique  and  tactics  of  war. 

There  was  little  time  even  for  talk.  Yet,  under 
lying  the  silent,  steady,  harsh  grinding,  Tom  caught 
the  faint  note  of  terrible,  bitter  excitement,  the  stink 
ing,  sulphurous  smoke  of  a  hidden  combustion  soon 
to  leap  into  crimson  and  orange  flame,  a  suppressed 
sucking  and  roaring  and  belching  like  an  underground 
furnace  driven  by  some  gigantic,  artificial  draught. 
The  very  air  of  the  barrack  yard  seemed  surcharged 
with  an  elemental,  brutal  activity  that  was  intense,  in 
exhaustible,  tragic. 

Hectic  whispers  rose  at  times  from  groups  of  ofH- 
cers — whispers  that  were  yearning,  again  pleading, 
again,  with  ferocious  suddenness,  stabbing  to  a  savage, 
insupportable  note,  like  the  expectant,  hysterical  cries 
of  worshipers  at  a  bloody  shrine  about  to  behold 
the  pomp  of  some  dreadful,  mysterious  ceremonial. 
Eager  to  see  it.  Yet  afraid. 

They  were  like  so  many  machines,  these  Prussian 
officers  about  him,  like  piece  goods  turned  out  of  a 
racial  sweat-shop.  Yet,  somehow,  very  subtly,  they 
preserved  their  individuality,  though  trying  to  hide  it, 
as  if  ashamed.  It  was  in  their  faces,  their  expressions, 
as  they  listened  to  the  Staff  officers'  instructions. 

Colonel  Wedekind  would  look  straight  ahead,  his 
square,  ruddy  face  composed  into  angular  lines,  like 
those  of  a  vicious  Roman  Emperor  with  a  touch  of 
Manchu.  Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede  seemed  nervous,  yet 
insolent,  forever  curling  his  dark  mustache  with  the 


J2/4  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

tips  of  his  fingers  as  if  to  see  that  it  was  still  there, 
as  if  the  martial  sweep  of  it  was  necessary  to  his  well- 
being,  his  soul,  his  courage.  Captain  von  Quitzow 
appeared  logy,  suffused  with  a  heavy,  sensuous  brutal 
ity  clumsily  overlaid  by  a  glazed,  sugary  pattern  of 
sentimentality,  while  others,  typical  Junkers  these,  lis 
tened  to  the  lessons  of  war  without  any  heated  curi 
osity,  like  men  who  were  familiar  writh  every  word 
that  was  being  said,  yet  with  distinct  sympathy  for 
the  seriousness  and  the  efforts  of  the  instructor. 
Still  others  seemed  to  pass  through  a  mental  and 
psychical  struggle,  a  battling  with  inherent  reluctance 
to  do  that  which  was  demanded  of  them,  but  with 
the  inevitable  result  that  finally  the  reluctance  faded 
out  of  them  and  gave  way  to  redoubled  energy,  re 
doubled  effort  to  listen,  learn,  obey.  One  young  Lieu 
tenant  seemed  overwrought,  on  the  edge  of  a  nervous 
breakdown,  listening  with  bated  breath,  looking  at  his 
war  teachers  with  bright,  almost  too  searching,  almost 
too  intelligent  eyes,  while  the  little  Ensign,  Baron  von 
Konigsmark,  showed  a  pale,  childish  face,  rather  glori 
ous  and  stately  in  spite  of  its  pitiful  youth,  wearing  a 
glow,  an  enthusiastic  glow,  that  came  from  the  soul, 
the  lips  compressed,  the  clear,  blue  eyes  ablaze.  Mag 
nificent  he  seemed,  with  an  air  of  power,  of  majesty 
that  was  akin  to  beauty. 

Tom  watched  them — and  he  paid  them  the  compli 
ment  of  believing  that  at  least  some  of  them  were 
watching  him.  So  he,  too,  cultivated  a  special  facial 
expression  for  use  during  hours  of  military  instruc 
tion.  And  it  was  something  distinctly  American : — 

The  Poker  Face. 

He  listened  without  a  muscle  or  a  nerve  twitching, 
not  even  when,  in  a  snarling,  matter-of-fact  Prussian 
voice,  one  of  the  instructors  propounded  and  proved 


B.  E.  D.  275 

the  point  that  treachery  was  sound  military  tactics, 
adding : 

"The  idea  of  war  is  to  win,  to  beat  the  enemy,  what 
ever  the  methods,  the  ways.  It  is  perfectly  proper, 
when  in  a  tight  corner,  to  use  the  white  flag  of  sur 
render  as  a  shield  beneath  which  to  return  to  the  at 
tack.  It  is  perfectly  proper  to  hold  up  your  hands,  to 
shout  'Kameradf  then  to  turn  on  the  foe  when  he 
enters  the  trenches  to  disarm  the  soldiers.  War  is  not 
a  sport,  meinc  Herren  Offiziere.  War  is  a  grim  busi 
ness.  The  rules  of  sport  do  not  apply  to  it.  Win! 
That's  what  the  War  Lord  demands  of  you.  Nothing 
else!" 

Leave  from  the  unceasing  grind  of  duty  was  sel 
dom  given,  and  Tom  was  circumspect  when  he  had 
an  hour  or  two  for  himself.  His  old  range  breed 
ing  stood  him  in  good  stead,  his  instinct,  his  second 
sight  of  the  man  used  to  the  noises  and  furtive  trails 
of  the  open  prairie.  Thus  he  knew  that,  whenever  he 
was  away  from  barracks,  he  was  being  shadowed. 

Not  that  it  troubled  him.  For  he  had  nothing  to 
conceal.  Occasionally  he  called  on  Bertha,  who  was 
never  alone,  nor  with  her  grandmother,  but  always 
with  her  aunt,  a  big,  hook-nosed,  high-colored  grena 
dier  of  a  woman  who,  had  she  been  English,  would 
have  been  a  horsy,  racing,  sporting  spinster,  but  who, 
being  a  German,  subdued  her  restless,  independent  in 
telligence  to  further  her  husband's  career.  She  had 
received  certain  instructions  from  the  latter  in  regard 
to  Tom  and  Bertha,  and  she  obeyed  them  to  the  let 
ter,  to  the  very  spirit  of  the  letter. 

Thus,  her  English  being  far  from  holeproof,  she 
would  draw  up  one  heavy,  black,  majestic  eyebrow 
and  tap  the  floor  with  her  capable  feet  when  Tom 
switched  to  his  native  language. 


276  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Wlr  sind  in  Deutschland,  Herr  Leutnant,"  would 
be  her  invariable  comment,  and  Tom  grinned  and 
obeyed. 

There  was,  therefore,  nothing  except  banalities  he 
could  talk  to  the  girl,  and  he  hoped  that  his  eyes 
would  tell  her  the  message  that  was  in  his  soul. 

It  did  not  take  him  long  to  discover  a  way  by  which 
he  might  let  Lord  Vyvyan  know  the  German  inten 
tions  as  to  the  line  of  freighters  which,  with  his  name 
as  a  dummy,  had  been  transferred  to  American  reg 
istry  after  a  change  of  names — "and  of  other  small 
details,"  as  the  Colonel  had  said.  And,  later  on, 
thinking  about  the  chain  of  events,  it  would  strike  him 
as  strange,  as  portentous,  as  fitting  of  the  new  era, 
that  it  was  a  bit  of  casual,  loose  American  slang,  of 
that  typically  transatlantic  slang  which  will  ever  remain 
an  unfathomable  secret  to  the  uninitiated,  that  saved 
the  situation,  that,  in  the  final  reckoning,  perhaps 
saved  the  whole  world  from  the  iron  heel,  the  soulless 
efficiency,  the  blood-stained  brutality  of  Kaiserism,  and 
Prussianism,  and  Junkerism — from  the  Trinity  of 
Crime. 

It  came  about  in  this  way. 

Tom  understood  the  impossibility,  since  he  was 
shadowed,  of  going  to  the  British  Embassy  and  find 
ing  there  the  man  who  had  the  duplicate  of  Vyvyan' s 
ring.  His  incoming  and  outgoing  mail,  too,  was  sure 
to  be  thoroughly  scrutinized  and  examined. 

But — there  was  McCaffrey.  There  was  the  blessed 
slang  of  the  New  World. 

One  day  (and  he  made  a  point  of  telling  Baron  von 
Gotz-Wrede  about  it)  he  ordered  a  saddle  from  Lon 
don,  enclosing  in  his  letter  Bank  of  England  notes 
which,  again  in  the  Baron's  presence,  he  had  pur 
chased  at  the  Deutsche  Bank. 


B.  E.  D.  277 

The  Baron  saw  him  slip  the  notes  in  the  letter  and 
mail  it,  but  he  did  not  notice  that  Tom  palmed  two 
of  the  crisp,  white  pound  sterling  certificates. 

That  night,  in  his  room,  Tom  wrote  a  few  words, 
dealing  with  the  names  of  certain  ships,  W alia  Walla, 
Seattle,  Carson  City,  Salt  Lake  City,  Santa  Rosa,  and 
Denver,  on  a  slip  of  paper  a  little  smaller  than  the 
English  bank-notes,  marked  across  it  in  red  ink :  "For 
B.  E.  D.,"  and  pasted  the  two  sterling  notes  together 
with  the  slip  of  paper  between,  in  such  a  manner  that 
a  tiny  edge  of  it  showed  above  the  margin  of  the  notes. 

This  done,  he  asked  for  leave,  was  granted  it,  and 
went  over  to  the  "Gross  Berlin  American  Bar/'  where 
he  bought  many  rounds  of  drink  for  the  English  and 
American  jockeys  and  trainers  who  frequented  the 
place,  paying  for  them  at  the  end  of  each  round. 

Finally  he  bought  one  more,  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket,  and  laughed. 

"Sorry,  Mac,"  he  said,  "I'm  bust." 

"All  right.     I'll  chalk  it  up,  Graves." 

"Not  on  your  life.  Wait — I  have  some  English 
money.  Take  it?" 

"Sure,"  said  the  barkeeper,  and  Tom  brought  out 
the  double  Bank  of  England  note. 

He  looked  at  it  critically.  Then  he  looked  at  Mc 
Caffrey,  long,  quizzically,  with  a  faint  wink  in  his  left 
eye,  faintly,  interrogatively  returned  by  his  Coney 
Island  compatriot. 

"Mac,"  he  drawled,  in  home  slang,  "pipe  this  case 
note.  It's  as  phoney  as  a  salted  mine." 

He  tossed  it  across  the  bar,  with  another  wink,  and 
McCaffrey  picked  it  up  and  examined  it. 

"Sure,"  he  said,  "it's  phoney  all  right,  all  right.  I 
don't  want  it,  young  feller." 

"Nor  I.     I  make  you  a  present  of  it.     Stick  some- 


278  LTHE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

body  else  with  it.  Say — I  tell  you  what  to  do.  Try 
and  palm  it  off  on  one  of  the  guys  from  the  British 
Embassy.  That  would  be  a  hell  of  a  joke" — and  he 
winked  again. 

"You  bet."  McCaffrey  pocketed  the  note.  "I'll  do 
that  little  thing  for  you."  He  turned  to  the  people 
lined  up  against  the  bar.  "What'll  you  have,  gents? 
This  one  is  on  the  house!" 

Tom  returned  to  barracks. 

He  had  risked  a  long  shot.  But,  somehow,  he  felt 
sure  that  it  would  hit  the  target 


CHAPTER  XL 
WAR! 

IT  came  suddenly,  over  night,  crashing  like  an  iron 
fist  into  the  teeth  of  the  world,  the  Western  world, 
France,  England,  Belgium,  the  United  States ;  the  stu- 
pia,  decent,  happy,  purblind  world  that  had  caviled 
and  jested  and  thrown  the  mud  of  doubt  when  the 
chosen  amongst  its  peoples  had  spoken  words  of  warn 
ing,  that  had  branded  the  seers  as  liars,  the  prophets 
as  panicky  fools;  that  had  refused  to  believe  what  it 
had  feared  to  believe;  that,  poisoned  with  the  deliber 
ate  propaganda  of  forty  years,  refused  to  believe  even 
now,  even  after  the  steely,  inexorable  fact  of  War 
hurled  across  its  frontiers,  crashing,  roaring,  maim 
ing,  torturing,  killing. 

It  started  with  a  tense,  dramatic  whisper  that 
changed,  in  twenty-four  hours,  to  a  savage,  clarion  call 
of  {riumph,  as  the  gray-green  hordes  trampled  the  fair 
fields  of  Belgium  and  blackened  the  crime  in  the  Ger 
man  soul  with  the  blacker  crime  of  the  German  fist. 

It  came  unrelenting,  disdainful,  bestial,  smashing 
the  standards  of  the  gray,  swinging  centuries,  smash 
ing  the  God-made,  man-made  standards  of  civilization 
and  honesty  and  decency. 

On  it  came  in  the  rolling  boundlessness  of  crazy 
ambition,  bruiting  afar  the  thunder  word  of  a  mad 
nation,  led  by  a  mad  Kaiser,  reechoing  it  from  the 
east  to  the  west  of  Europe,  and  beyond,  from  the 

279 


THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

heights  of  Quebec  to  the  matted  jungles  of  Central 
Africa. 

It  wakened  the  fog-bound  cities  of  the  North  with 
the  sweep  of  it. 

It  chilled  the  golden-souled  cities  of  the  West  with 
the  steel  of  it. 

It  rolled  over  the  sad  marshes  of  the  East  like  a 
sheet  of  smouldering  fire,  yellow,  burning,  inexorable. 

It  thundered  against  the  hope  of  all  the  world  and 
killed  that  hope — with  the  laughter  of  Satan,  the 
Cursed,  laughing  into  nothingness  God's  cosmic  code. 

War! 

The  war  of  a  snake's  fang  and  a  tiger's  claw! 

The  war  of  poison  and  rape  and  murder  and  dis 
ease! 

German  War ! 

It  struck  Berlin  like  a  typhoon. 

The  night  before  there  had  been  whisperings — yes! 
— also  nervousness,  fear,  tense,  shuddering  expectancy. 

Crowds  paraded  the  streets,  looking  up  anxiously 
at  the  flickering  lights — cressets  of  evil — that  shone 
behind  the  windows  of  the  Imperial  Schloss,  the  War 
Office,  the  Foreign  Ministry,  the  Chancellor's  Palace. 

"War?  Out  of  the  question!  Ausgeschlossen! 
Ganz  unmbglich!" 

Then,  in  the  morning,  the  fact  of  it,  crimson- 
stained,  irrevocable! 

In  ten  minutes  the  news  had  swept  over  Berlin; 
dipping  eastward  from  the  Emperor's  Schloss  to  the 
wholesale  district  that  clutters  around  the  Alexander 
Platz  and  speeding  up  innumerable  hands  busy  with 
needle  and  thread  and  gray-green  uniform  cloth; 
swinging  beyond  the  drab,  dusty  flats  of  Treptow  and 
causing  burly  foremen  in  overalls  to  curse  the  beery 


WAR!  281 

slowness  of  their  workmen,  who  were  riveting  bolts 
into  gun  caissons  or  trimming  airplane  wings  into 
aluminum  frames. 

North  it  surged,  to  Moabit,  with  the  message  to 
countless  factories : 

"Get  ready!  Get  ready!  The  minutes  spell  vic 
tory  !  They  spell  the  Fate  of  the  Nation !" 

And  trip-hammers  thudded ;  bit-braces  zummed ;  der 
rick-cranes  hoisted  away;  dynamos  throbbed;  piling- 
gins  shook  and  drummed;  gudgeons  slid  into  shafts; 
gas  engines  hissed  and  stuttered;  pliers  bit  and 
wrenched  and  cut. 

West  traveled  the  news,  echoing  in  the  villas  of 
merchants  and  bankers  and  brokers,  sending  them 
frantically  to  the  long-distance  telephones,  there  to 
rush  orders  to  their  correspondents  on  the  stock  ex 
changes  of  Frankfort  and  Munich  and  Vienna: 

"Buy  German  Consols!" 

"Buy  Prussian  State  Railways !" 

"Sell  French  Government  Bonds!" 

"Sell  Russian  Petroleum!" 

"Sell  Belgian  Industrials !" 

Remembering  the  secret  orders  received  weeks  ago 
from  the  Ministry  of  Commerce  for  just  such  an 
emergency;  then  cabling  across  to  New  York  and 
Chicago  with  similar  orders,  supplemented  later  in 
the  day  by  other,  stranger  ones : 

"Buy  Bethlehem  Steel!" 

"Buy  Remington  Arms!" 

"Buy  U.  S.  Steel  Commons!" 

Still  on  rushed  the  news,  to  Spandau,  Magdeburg, 
Kopenick,  Frankfort-on-the-Oder  and  many  more  of 
that  spider  web  of  small  towns  that  cluster  about  Ber 
lin,  causing  the  division  freight  superintendents  and 
the  division  passenger  superintendents  of  the  Imperial 


282  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

German  Railways  to  meet  in  sudden  conclaves,  not  to 
figure  and  debate  (all  that  had  been  done  weeks, 
months,  years  ago)  but  to  revise  certain  figures,  to 
dovetail  them  with  the  new  orders  that  shot  from  the 
Berlin  Railway  Ministry  with  the  speed  and  precision 
of  bullets : 

"Freight  train  Number  Two  Spandau-Mannheim — 
switch  to  track  59,  9,  O.  P. !" 

"Ninety-three  car  loads  of  coal  southeast  from 
Munich — no! — northeast — to  Breslau!  Track  to  Bo 
hemian  frontier!" 

"Vienna  clamors  for  coal,  for  cars,  for  tenders! 
For  men !"  And  the  comment,  though  not  sent  along 
the  wires:  "Damn  these  Austrians!  Slow,  soft! 
Just  that  much  dead  weight !" 

Thus  the  news,  rushing  on,  on.  The  Jaganath  of 
\Var  was  in  motion.  Crunchingly,  pitilessly,  its 
wheels  moved. 

By  noon,  Berlin  had  re-made  the  map  of  Europe 
over  beer  and  coffee  and  champagne.  The  British  ul 
timatum  had  not  yet  been  ticked  on  its  way,  thus  talk 
ran  free  and  brave. 

Degenerate  France,  impotent  Belgium,  barbarous, 
top-heavy  Russia  were  disposed  of  with  the  gesture 
of  a  hand,  the  twisting  of  an  arrogant,  or  Jesuitical 
word. 

"Wlr  sind  die  Herren  Nation — we  are  the  nation  of 
masters!  Resistance?  Shucks!  Ours  the  strong 
hand,  theirs  the  scraggly  throat  .  .  .  And  we  squeeze, 
squeeze !" 

During  those  first  hours  the  war  had  not  yet  as 
sumed  a  personal  aspect,  had  not  yet  bitten  with  its 
ragged,  slimy  fangs  into  the  life,  the  home,  the  com 
fort,  the  happiness  of  the  individual  German.  It  was 


.WAR!  283 

simply  a  glorious,  shining  adventure,  a  cumulated,  lat 
ter-day  memory  of  all  the  great  men  who  had  clouted 
German  history  to  the  final  apex:  Herman  the 
Cheruscan,  Friedrich  Barbarossa,  Prince  Bliicher, 
Moltke,  Bismarck! 

A  stern  duty,  this  war.  A  thundering,  eternal 
right.  But  one  that  would  be  seen  to  by  the  army 
already  mobilized — they  were  swinging  down  the 
streets  like  an  immense  gray-green  snake  with  innu 
merable,  bobbing  heads — a  million  and  a  half  men. 
Only  the  peace  strength  of  conscripts,  with  perhaps 
an  additional  thirty  or  forty  reserve  divisions — just  to 
stay  in  the  background  in  case  of  emergencies. 

Second  line  reserve  ?  Third  line  ?  The  men  of  the 
Landwehr  in  the  prime  of  their  years?  The  logy, 
bearded,  retired  burgesses  of  the  Landsturm? 

Nonsense ! 

This  was  a  little  saber  rattling  escapade  for  the 
beardless  youth  of  Germany.  For,  of  course,  the 
whole  thing  would  be  a  military  promenade,  breakfast 
in  Brussels,  lunch  in  Paris,  back  in  Berlin  for  a  late 
dinner  and  theater.  The  fighting  would  be  over  in  a 
few  weeks,  meanwhile  life  at  home  would  run  in  the 
same  smooth  channels. 

"Yes.  A  military  promenade,  meine  Herren  Com- 
militonen,"  said  the  red-faced  chairman  of  the  Borus- 
sia  fraternity  of  students  who  had  met  as  usual  over 
their  morning  Schoppcn  at  the  Pschorr  Restaurant. 
"We  will  take  Paris  and  Calais.  France  will  cede  us 
the  rest  of  Lorraine.  Belgium  will  submit  peacefully. 
Russia?  Pooh!  Afterwards  we  will  speak  a  few 
words  to  those  damned  English  and  Americans.  Gen 
tlemen!  I  drink  to  His  All-Gracious  Majesty,  the 
War  Lord !" 

"Hurrah!     Hurrah!    Hurrah!"  came  the  alcoholic 


284  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

chorus  and  steins  were  drained,  then  brought  down  on 
the  wooden  table  with  a  crash. 

The  students  smiled  at  each  other.  They  had  set 
tled  that  little  war. 

"An  experiment  in  racial  biology,"  Professor  Sachs 
said  to  his  class  at  the  university,  "and  the  old  Ger 
man  sword  will  prove  that  the  experiment  is  right. 
It  will  wipe  out  forever  that  cursed  and  unnatural, 
that  most  ungodly  heresy  called  Democracy,  that 
ominous,  new  superstition  of  the  Western  peoples, 
those  diseased,  cowardly  degenerates.  War !  A  fact ! 
A  moral  fact!  A  German  fact!  In  its  final  conse 
quences,  a  great,  civilizing,  beautiful  fact!  For  the 
value  or  the  non- value  of  an  action  can  only  be  in 
ferred  from  its  consequences,  and  we  shall  dictate 
these  consequences  in  Paris,  as  we  did  in  Seventy, 
with  a  sword  dipped  in  blood !" 

"It  will  give  a  knockout  blow  to  foreign  competi 
tion,"  whispered  chosen,  well-primed  speakers  among 
the  socialistic  workmen.  "It  will  raise  our  wage 
standard.  It  will  help  us  to  invade  new  markets. 
Beer  will  be  cheaper,  also  wool.  Meat  will  be  more 
plentiful." 

"The  very  thing,"  laughed  the  professional  Anti- 
semites.  "For  over  a  hundred  years  has  Germany 
groaned  under  the  heel  of  Jewish  usurers — the  Bleich- 
roders  and  Warschauers  and  Mendelsohns  and  Op- 
penheims !  This  war  will  change  all  that.  Under  the 
cloak  of  national  necessity  we  will  dip  our  fingers  into 
their  swollen  pockets.  We  will  confiscate  their  mil 
lions — and  that  will  help  the  East-Elbian  Junkers,  the 
flower  of  the  land,  the  salt  of  the  earth !" 


WAR!  285 

"It's  damned  good  business,"  opined  the  bankers  and 
merchants.  "Remember  that  last  Brazilian  Govern 
ment  order  for  locomotives?  The  Yankees  got  that. 
And  that  railway  from  Pekin  to  Shensi  ?  The  Chinese 
Government  accepted  a  British  tender.  War  will 
change  all  that.  We  shall  insist  on  a  clause  in  the 
final  peace  terms  which  will  .  .  ." 

"But  neither  England  nor  America  are  in  this  war," 
came  the  voice  of  doubt. 

"Of  course  not.  They're  afraid  of  us,  diese  ver- 
fluchtcn,  hypokritischen  Schweinehunde.  And  just 
because  they  are  afraid,  we  Germans  shall  dictate  to 
them  whatever  we  please  ..." 

"Yes.  Quite  right.  Just  wait  till  our  troops  have 
entered  Paris!" 

Paris! 

That  was  the  slogan,  the  guerdon,  the  grail. 

"Nach  Paris — on  to  Paris  I" 

They  clenched  their  hairy  fists.  They  smacked  their 
sagging  lips.  They  exchanged  lecherous,  meaning 
winks. 

Why,  there  were  women  in  Paris.  French  women. 
They  had  read  about  them.  They  had  seen  pic 
tures. 

Too,  there  were  art  treasures,  cellars  filled  with  vin 
tage  wines,  the  best  of  food,  everything  worth  while 
in  life. 

Loot! 

Why,  it  was  theirs!  Paris  was  an  oyster  to  be 
opened  at  the  mere  kick  of  their  booted,  spurred  toes ! 

"Nach  Paris!" 

Crudely  the  boast  was  chalked  on  every  troop  train 
that  snorted  away  from  the  Lehrter  Railway  Depot 
bound  for  the  Northwest,  for  Belgium.  For  the  road 


286  LTHE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

lay  there.  It  was  easy.  The  Belgians  would  not  be 
such  fools  as  to  resist. 

The  Belgian  treaty?     Rot!     A  scrap  of  paper! 

The  Belgians'  honor?  Rot  again!  They  would 
pay  for  that  selfsame  honor  with  minted  gold — gold 
which  France  would  repay  to  the  Imperial  Treasury 
a  thousandfold! 

Thus: 

"Nach  Paris!" 

The  cry  was  echoed  through  the  streets,  flung  to 
the  skies,  caught,  flung  high  again  like  a  glittering, 
tinselly  ball. 

People  cheered.  They  shouted.  They  laughed. 
They  drank  toasts  to  the  army,  the  nation,  the  Em 
peror,  the  Crown  Prince,  themselves. 

Supermen,  we!  Beyond  the  Good  and  the  Evil! 
We — the  masters !  We — with  God !  And  so : 

"Hurrah!    Hurrah!"  and  again:     "Hurrah!" 

But  around  two  in  the  afternoon  a  subtle  change 
began  to  creep  into  the  emotional  atmosphere  of  the 
German  capital.  People  still  laughed  and  cheered  and 
toasted.  They  still  boasted  and  bragged  insanely. 
They  still  drove  their  national  megalomania  with  the 
knotted  whip  of  lust  and  hatred. 

But  their  triumphant  joy  seemed  a  little  forced. 
The  spontaneity  had  faded  out  of  it. 

Men,  strangers,  stopped  each  other  on  the  street, 
faces  just  a  little  pale,  eyes  just  a  little  haggard,  hands 
just  a  little  shaky.  They  produced  blue  bits  of  paste 
board — the  summons  to  the  Bezirkskommando,  the  in 
spection  headquarters  of  the  military  districts  where 
they  resided. 

"They're  calling  the  second  reserves  to  the  colors. 
Another  fifty  divisions.  I  wonder  why." 


WAR!  287 

"Oh,  just  to  make  doubly  sure.  That's  our  Ger 
man  way.  Anyway,  we're  past  thirty-three,  you  and 
I,  we  won't  have  to  fight.  The  war  will  be  over  in 
a  month,  before  they'll  have  time  to  muster  us  in." 

"I  don't  know  about  that.     There  are  rumors  .  .  ." 

"Don't  believe  them.  Foreign  propaganda.  Eng 
lish  lies !" 

"Still  .  .  .  Listen!"  as  a  newspaper  boy  ran  past, 
shouting  his  wares.  "Here,  boy!  The  Berliner 
Zeitung!" 

"What  is  it?" 

"What  does  that  head-line  say?" 

"Wait.     Don't  crowd  so." 

"Yes — go  on — read — " 

"The  Belgians  .  .  ." 

"Surrender?     Submit?" 

"No,  no!  Gott  im  Himmel!  They  resist!  They 
fight!" 

"Damned  fools!     We'll  eat  'em  up!" 

"But  England — Sir  Edward  Grey  sent  an  ultimatum 
— yesterday  ..." 

"Bluff !  The  English  won't  fight.  India  would  re 
bel,  Ireland,  Canada,  South  Africa  .  .  ." 

Yet,  for  all  their  brave  boastings,  they  were  begin 
ning  to  get  nervous.  The  war  was  becoming  a  per 
sonal  issue  as,  hour  after  hour,  more  reservists  were 
called  to  the  colors,  by  letter  and  telegram  and  tele 
phone  and  newspaper  advertisements  and  big  placards 
pasted  on  the  walls  and  those  advertising  columns, 
typical  of  Berlin,  called  Liivas-saulen. 

In  each  city  ward  the  office  of  the  district  military 
inspector  was  packed  with  an  anxious  mob  shouting 
qu^cions : 

"When?    When,  Herr  Oberstf" 


288  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"At  once!  Second  and  third  reserves  called  out! 
Go  to  the  barracks  of  your  old  regiments.  You  will 
find  everything  ready  there,  your  uniforms,  your 
rifles,  your  side  arms.  All  numbered.  Alles  klappt! 
That  is  the  Prussian  way!" 

Then  the  chorus,  once  more  enthusiastic,  terrible 
in  its  overwhelming,  unreasoning,  racial  conceit: 

"Yes.  That  is  the  Prussian  way!"  And  the 
crowd,  arm  in  arm,  marching  out  on  the  sun-bathed 
streets,  swinging  along  in  the  old,  rectangular  goose 
step  they  had  learned  years  ago  when  they  were  with 
the  colors,  and  singing  at  the  top  of  their  lungs : 

"Lebt  whol,  Ihr  Madels  und  Ihr  Frauen, 
Und  schafft  Euch  einen  Andren  an  .  .  ." 

And  on  they  rolled  to  the  barracks,  each  man  to 
the  cupboard  which  was  painted  with  his  number. 
They  passed  reservists,  already  in  uniform,  on  their 
way,  on  foot,  on  horseback,  and  then  every  one  would 
laugh  and  wave  hands  and  handkerchiefs  to  those, 
the  vanguard,  who  rode  away  triumphantly  in  the 
sunshine,  women  and  children  paralleling  the  march 
ing  columns  on  the  sidewalks,  crying,  laughing,  sing 
ing,  shouting,  throwing  flowers  and  cigarettes. 

The  Uhlans  of  the  Guard,  too,  were  receiving  their 
quota  of  reservists  and  Tom,  who  was  on  duty, 
watched  them  arrive,  waited  till  they  had  donned  their 
uniforms,  then  picked  out  horses  and  saddles  for  them. 
He,  Captain  von  Quitzow,  and  young  von  Konigs- 
mark,  promoted  two  days  earlier  to  a  second  lieuten 
ancy,  were  the  only  officers  left  at  barracks.  All  the 
field  officers,  Colonel  Heinrich  Wedekind  included,  had 
been  ordered  to  Metz  an  hour  earlier  to  confer  with 
the  commanding  General  of  the  cavalry  brigade  c41  the 
First  Army  Corps;  the  squadron  leaders  had  been 


JVAR!  289 

transferred  to  do  some  quick  drilling  with  new 
mounted  troops  that  were  being  levied  for  the  Eastern 
border,  and  the  subalterns  were  busy  at  depot  head 
quarters.  Tom  realized  that,  for  once,  he  was  not  be 
ing  watched.  They  had  forgotten  about  him  in  the 
general  turmoil,  but  for  the  time-being  he  could  not 
get  away.  There  were  too  many  things  to  do,  and 
he  helped  loyally — not  out  of  loyalty  for  that  Ger 
many  which  he  hated,  but  for  von  Quitzow,  who  was 
fussed,  nervous,  wavering  between  tears  and  terrible 
fits  of  Berserker  rage,  and  for  von  Konigsmark,  who 
was  pale  and  serious,  but  unable  to  cope  with  the 
situation. 

So  Tom  did  his  best,  and  it  was  four  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  before  the  full  quota  of  reservists  had 
been  mustered  in  and  assigned  to  their  squadrons. 

"I'm  going  to  snatch  a  bite,"  he  said  to  von  Quitzow, 
rushed  out,  and  went  to  the  nearest  telephone  booth. 

He  called  up  the  Colonel's  house.  Of  course  he 
knew  that  Wedekind  had  left  for  Metz;  and  he 
chuckled  when  the  servant  told  him  across  the  wires 
that  his  wife  had  accompanied  him. 

"Bully!''  he  said  to  himself,  jumped  into  a  taxi- 
cab  and,  twenty  minutes  later,  rang  the  bell  of  the 
Colonel's  apartment.  He  asked  for  old  Mrs.  Wede 
kind  and  she  came  to  him,  pale,  wrinkled,  more  feeble 
than  he  had  ever  seen  her  before,  but  with  the  same 
little  malicious  twinkle  in  her  shrewd  old  eyes. 

Through  the  open  door  she  indicated  her  son's  work 
room  that  looked  as  if  a  cyclone  had  struck  it,  scraps 
of  paper  on  the  floor,  books  upset,  drawers  pulled  out, 
disarranged  in  the  haste  of  departure. 

"When  the  cat  is  away  .  .  ." 

"The  mice  begin  to  play,"  Tom  finished  the  proverb. 
"Yes." 


290  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

He  was  silent.  He  looked  at  her  thin,  trembling 
hands,  at  her  fringe  of  white  hair  beneath  the  spidery 
lace  cap.  For  a  moment  he  felt  strangely,  almost 
cruelly  young.  Then  he  looked  into  her  eyes.  He 
saw  that  the  little  malicious  twinkle  had  given  way 
to  an  expression  of  sympathy,  of  love  even,  and  at 
once  the  difference  in  age  between  him  and  her  seemed 
to  vanish. 

"Mrs.  Wedekind,"  he  said,  "I  have  come  here  to 
ask  you  to  .  .  ."  he  faltered,  was  silent.  He  did  not 
know  how  to  put  his  request  into  words ;  and  she  gave 
a  short,  bitter  laugh. 

"You  have  come  here,"  she  said,  "because  you  are 
young  and  in  love — and,  therefore,  selfish,  terribly, 
terribly  selfish !" 

"Please— please  .  .  ." 

"No  use  denying  it,  my  boy.  And  why  should 
you?  Love  is  glorious,  love  is  selfish.  It  is  the  way 
of  love.  I — I  know  .  .  ." 

Suddenly,  as  Tom  looked,  she  seemed  to  grow  very 
old.  Her  eyes  became  dim.  Her  words  came  mum 
bling  : 

"They — my  son,  the  army,  Prussia,  the  Emperor — 
they  think  that  force  dominates  the  world.  But  they 
are  wrong.  It  is  love  which  dominates,  love  which 
rules.  And  .  .  ." 

Once  more  her  words  were  clear  and  distinct: 

"You  want  my  help,  don't  you?  To  help  you  and 
Bertha  to  get  out  of  Germany,  out  of  the  Eagle's 
clutches?" 

"Yes,"  murmured  Tom,  "I  want  you  to  .  .  ." 

"Do  not  tell  me,"  she  interrupted.  "I  could  not 
listen  to  you.  It  would  be  treason.  I  am  a  German. 
But" — she  put  her  wrinkled  old  hand  on  Tom's  arm — 
"it  may  interest  you  to  hear  that  I  have  decided  to 


WAR!  291 

join  my  son  at  Metz  and  that  Bertha  is  going  with 
me.  You,  too,  are  going  there,  with  your  regiment. 
Metz  is  but  a  few  miles  from  the  French  frontier. 
Bertha  and  I  leave  to-night.  To-morrow  night,  at 
eleven  o'clock,  I  shall  go  with  her  to  pray  in  the 
old  Marienkirche — near  the  fortifications.  It  may  be 
that  I  shall  lose  Bertha  there.  You  see,  I  am  old  and 
short-sighted." 

She  rose. 

"To-morrow  night,"  she  repeated,  "near  the 
Church  of  St.  Mary,  at  eleven!  Good-by,  Mr. 
Graves!" 

He  bent  over  her  thin,  scented  old  hand.  He  stam 
mered  his  thanks,  but  she  cut  them  short. 

"No,  no,  no !"  she  said,  just  a  little  petulantly.  "I 
told  you  that  you  are  in  love,  and  that  people  who 
love  are  selfish,  brutally  selfish." 

And  then  the  Westerner  in  Torn  rose  to  the  oc 
casion. 

"That's  where  you  are  wrong,  dead  wrong!"  he 
cried.  "I — by  Gosh! — I'll  show  you.  I'll  take  you 
with  me  to  France,  to  America,  if  I  manage  to  make 
my  get-away.  I'll  take  both  you  and  Bertha!" 

She  broke  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"Thank  you.  You  are  a  dear  boy,  Tom  .  .  .  May 
I  call  you  Tom?  But  .  .  ." 

Abruptly  her  merriment  ceased.  She  was  terribly, 
stonily  serious  as  she  went  on : 

"I  do  not  want  to  leave  Germany." 

"What  ?"  asked  Tom  with  naive  wonder. 

"Don't  you  see?  It  is  not  only  because  I  am  too 
old,  but  also  because — why,  Tom,  I  am  a  German." 

"But  I've  heard  you  say  .  .  ." 

"Many  things — against  Prussia  and  the  Kaiser  and 
the  Junkers.  True  things.  But,  for  all  that,  I  love 


292  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

the  Fatherland — right  or  wrong!"  She  drew  herself 
up.  "And  the  Fatherland  is  at  war."  She  threw 
open  the  window.  "Listen !" 

From  the  street,  a  great,  zumming  chorus  rose, 
swelling,  bloating,  ever  increasing,  singing  the  old 
German  battle  hymn  with  a  hundred  thousand  throats : 

"Lieb*  Vaterland,  magst  ruhig  sein  .  .  . 
Fest  steht,  und  treu,  die  Wacht,  die  Wacht  am  Rhein" — 

Then,  with  dramatic  suddenness,  the  song  broke  off. 
There  was  utter,  terrible  silence — hushed,  strained,  as 
of  a  thousand  unspoken  questions. 

Somebody,  an  officer  of  the  Cuirassiers,  came  run 
ning  around  the  corner.  He  was  waving  a  newspaper. 
Tom  looked  from  the  window,  Mrs.  Wedekind  by  his 
side.  The  crowd  had  turned  like  one  man  and  was 
staring  at  the  officer. 

"What— what  has  happened?"  Mrs.  Wedekind's 
voice  trembled. 

And  then  the  answer,  from  the  street,  as  the  Cuiras 
sier  shouted  it  at  the  silent,  questioning  mob : 

"England!  England  has  declared  war!" — and,  at 
once,  a  chorus  of  cries,  of  shouts,  of  hysterical  yells : 

"England!     The  traitor  nation!" 

"To  hell  with  England!" 

"Gott  strafe  England!" 

And,  clear  above  the  roar,  a  single,  high-pitched 
voice  stabbing  out: 

"On  to  the  British  Embassy!  Kill  the  English! 
Kill  them!" 

The  shout  was  taken  up.  The  crowd,  the  Cuirassier 
leading,  rolled  on  like  a  maelstrom,  and  Tom  grabbed 
cape  and  uhlanka  and  saber. 

A  moment  earlier,  he  had  felt  prey  to  a  certain 
doubt,  a  certain  fear.  Now  he  saw  a  chance. 


WAR!  293 

"Good-by!"  He  kissed  Mrs.  Wedekind's  hand. 
"To-morrow  night  at  eleven,  in  Metz,  near  St.  Mary's 
Church!" 

And  he  was  out  of  the  room,  down  the  stairs,  into 
the  street,  running  to  catch  up  with  the  mob  that  was 
still  shouting  hysterically : 

"Kill  the  English!  Kill  them!  On  to  the  British 
Embassy!" 


CHAPTER  XLI 

THE   MOB   SPEAKS 

WHAT  had  puzzled  Tom,  what  he  had  wondered 
about  and,  finally,  tentatively  solved  while  looking 
from  the  window  at  the  maddened  German  mob,  was 
this: 

Thousands  of  motor-cars  of  all  sorts  had  been  com 
mandeered  during  the  last  few  days  and  rushed  to 
the  frontier  towns,  including  Metz — taxicabs,  road 
sters,  heavy  touring  machines,  massive  trucks,  racers, 
and  armored  cars.  Given  his  uniform,  his  rank  in 
the  army,  it  would  not  be  difficult,  arrived  at  Metz,  to 
do  a  little  commandeering  himself,  to  pick  out  a  fast 
racer  and  then — whizz! — across  the  border.  But  the 
trouble  was  that,  try  as  he  might,  his  mind  had  never 
been  able  to  grasp  even  the  rudiments  of  machinery, 
the  most  ordinary  mechanical  details.  He  knew  as 
much  about  automobiles  as  a  baby  in  arms. 

He  was,  in  that  respect  at  least,  an  atavistic  throw 
back  to  an  earlier,  simpler  age — a  man  on  horseback. 

Horses  he  knew,  from  withers  to  fetlock. 

"Give  me  a  horse,"  he  used  to  say,  "a  clever,  fast 
mare  and  an  ugly  bit  of  country,  and  I'll  ride  rings 
around  your  stinking,  clanking  motor-cars!  Not  on 
level  ground,  of  course.  But  on  hilly,  treacherous 
ground,  where  the  rider's  brains  count — and  the 
horse's!" — and  he  had  learned,  at  War  School,  that 
the  sweep  of  land  from  Metz  to  the  West  was  just 
that  sort — broken,  hilly,  ugly. 

294 


THE  MOB  SPEAKS  295 

Horses,  then.  One  for  Bertha,  one  for  himself. 
And  how  could  he  get  them  ? 

All  the  fast  horses,  for  days  past,  had  been  picked 
and  entrained  for  the  Northwest,  the  Belgian  fron 
tier,  where  three  divisions  of  cavalry  were  supposed 
to  make  a  flanking  sweep  through  the  rolling  Belgian 
fields  under  General  von  Manteuffel.  Too,  the  Rus 
sian  border  had  absorbed  thousands  and  thousands  of 
picked  animals  as  a  mounted  counterweight  against 
the  expected  Cossack  onrush.  On  the  Metz-Verdun 
sector  the  War  Lord  was  pinning  his  faith  on  incessant 
bombardment,  followed  up  by  countless  waves  of  in 
fantrymen.  Of  course,  there  was  some  cavalry  there, 
too.  But  no  picked,  fast  horses. 

All  that  Tom  had  gathered  during  the  last  few  days 
when  the  officers  of  the  Uhlans  had  talked  about  it 
excitedly,  had  complained  rather  bitterly  that  their 
regiment,  the  best  in  the  Guards,  had  been  robbed  of 
its  finest  mounts  and  was  being  sent  to  Metz,  where 
there  would  be  no  chance  for  a  dashing,  clashing 
charge. 

He  would  get  to  Metz  all  right.  He  would  take  the 
midnight  train,  the  same  by  which  he  supposed  Mrs. 
Wedekind  and  Bertha  would  travel.  He  would  have 
to,  since  a  later  train  would  not  get  him  there  in  time, 
and  since  he  doubted  that  old  Mrs.  Wedekind  would 
have  more  than  one  chance  to  bring  Bertha  to  him. 
He  imagined  in  fact  that  she  would  proceed  to  St. 
Mary's  Church  directly  from  the  depot,  before  the 
Colonel  knew  that  the  two  women  had  left  Berlin. 

There  was  yet  another  danger.  That  morning  he 
had  received  orders  to  leave  Berlin  for  Metz,  together 
with  Captain  von  Quitzow,  on  the  next  day.  Further 
more,  the  latter  was  expecting  him  back  at  barracks 
to-night. 


296  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Well — he  would  have  to  run  that  risk.  He  would 
rush  back  to  his  room  in  barracks,  evade  the  Captain 
and  von  Konigsmark,  tell  his  soldier  servant,  his 
Bursche,  some  cock-and-bull  story,  and  make  the  mid 
night  train  all  right. 

But — he  needed  help  once  he  reached  Metz,  help  to 
get  him  the  right  sort  of  horseflesh. 

Tom  had  been  doing  a  good  deal  of  thinking  dur 
ing  the  last  months.  The  sudden  coming  of  war  had 
not  altogether  surprised  him.  He  had  listened  to  the 
mumbling,  sinister  voice  of  the  undercurrent,  he  had 
thought  over  the  many  things  that  had  happened  to 
him  since  he  had  made  his  stake  in  the  Hoodoos.  He 
was  now  quite  convinced  that,  what  he  had  suspected, 
was  true : 

Vyvyan,  inane,  drawling  Vyvyan,  was  a  British 
Secret  Service  man.  So  were  many  of  the  other  Eng 
lishmen  whom  he  had  met  in  Berlin,  chiefly  some  of 
the  little,  wizened  jockeys  and  trainers  who  fore 
gathered  at  the  "Gross  Berlin  American  Bar." 

These  jockeys,  through  their  original  calling,  were 
familiar  with  the  horses  of  the  German  racing  stables 
as  a  Boston  dowager  is  with  the  passenger  list  of  the 
Mayflower.  Metz  was  a  rich,  prosperous  town. 
Some  wealthy  man  was  sure  to  have  a  racing  estab 
lishment  there — and  to  that  racing  establishment,  to 
the  best  two  horses  in  it,  he  would  have  to  win — and 
for  that  end  he  needed  advice,  help.  For  everything 
depended  on  the  horses  he  and  Bertha  would  ride. 

But — whom  should  he  ask? 

It  was  the  hysterical  yell  of  the  Berlin  mob:  "On 
to  the  British  Embassy !"  which  gave  him  the  cue,  and 
he  thought  again  of  the  strange  words  that  Vyvyan 
had  said  to  him  many  months  earlier : 

"If  ever  you  should  get  into  trouble,  if  by  that  time 


THE  MOB  SPEAKS  297 

I  should  have  left  Berlin,  you  must  go  to  the  British 
Embassy.  Once  inside  you  must  find,  somehow,  the 
man  who  has  the  duplicate  of  my  ring.  Him  you  can 
trust.  And  nobody  else." 

Before  this  he  had  tried  to  get  into  the  Embassy 
to  find  the  mysterious  stranger  with  the  ring — that 
time  when  Bertha  had  told  him  that  she  was  being 
held  in  Berlin  against  her  will.  He  had  failed  then; 
and,  since,  he  had  been  watched,  shadowed. 

But  now  he  had  a  chance,  with  that  crazed,  yelling, 
blood-thirsty  mob,  rolling  on  relentlessly  toward  the 
same  goal. 

"On  to  the  British  Embassy!" 

The  shout  was  taken  up  like  the  response  in  some 
Satanic  litany. 

Steadily  the  mob  gathered  strength,  impetus,  brutal, 
tearing  sweep.  From  all  sides  men  joined  it,  even 
women  and  children,  shaking  fists  and  sticks  and  um 
brellas,  picking  up  bricks  and  stones. 

A  mob!  A  raging  mob  with  but  one  thought,  one 
mania : 

"Kill  the  English!" 

The  cry  rose  like  some  horrible  incantation  of  lust 
and  cruelty.  Tom  pushed  into  the  thick  of  them, 
using  fist  and  elbow  and  foot,  until  he  had  reached 
the  front  rank.  He  yelled  and  shouted  and  cursed 
with  the  best  of  them : 

"The  English!" 

"Kill  them !" 

"Gott  strafe  England!" 

"On  to  the  Embassy!  Tear  it  stone  from  stone! 
Give  it  to  the  flames!" 

During  that  crazy  rush  down  the  streets  of  Berlin, 
Tom  learned  something  about  mob  psychology.  Too, 
about  that  accursed,  insidious  poison  called  Hatred. 


298  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

He  was  not  a  German.  He  disliked  everything 
German,  had  done  so  ever  since  the  blindness  of  igno 
rance  had  been  taken  from  his  eyes  and  he  had  seen 
the  real  heart  of  the  Teuton  Beast.  Yet,  momenta 
rily,  he  felt  with  this  mob. 

His  mouth  felt  dry.  His  eyes  bulged.  Colossal, 
half -sensuous  excitement  quivered  down  his  body, 
from  head  to  toe,  touching  his  spine  with  softly  cruel 
hands,  electrifying  him.  It  was  an  incredible,  trem 
bling,  unclean  elation. 

His  fingers  clenched.  He  shouted  with  the  others, 
in  a  horrible,  insane  fervor  of  lust : 

"Kill  the  English!" 

But,  after  a  second  that  seemed  an  eternity,  he  re 
gained  control  of  himself,  and  when  finally  the  mob 
had  reached  the  corner  of  the  Wilhelm  Strasse  and 
rolled  down  toward  the  British  Embassy,  he  was  per 
fectly  cool. 

Heretofore,  instead  of  stemming  the  human  ava 
lanche,  instead  of  beating  them  back  with  their  sabers 
and  pistol  butts  that  were  usually  so  ready,  the  police, 
as  if  acting  under  orders,  had  only  helped  to  swell  the 
mob,  had  joined  in  the  mad,  killing  chorus.  Then 
they  must  have  received  counter-orders.  Perhaps  the 
shame  of  it  had  even  pierced  the  thick  skin  of  the 
German  rulers.  For,  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the 
Embassy  platoons  of  blue-coats,  on  foot  and  mounted, 
hurled  themselves  against  the  oncoming  horde. 

"Back!     Back!" 

"Zurich!" 

"Hey  there — look  out — "  as  the  flat  of  a  saber 
swished  down  on  head  or  arm. 

But  they  had  acted  too  late.  Already  some  of  the 
crowd  had  broken  through  to  the  Embassy,  had  torn 
down  the  British  escutcheon,  trampling  it,  spitting  on 


THE  MOB  SPEAKS  299 

it.     Stones  and  bricks  and  sticks  were  hurled.     Win 
dows  broke  with  a  crash. 

A  woman  cried  hysterically. 

Again  the  police  advanced,  this  time  using  their 
sabers  to  good  effect.  The  mob  was  hurled  back,  but 
not  before  a  few  of  them  had  succeeded  in  battering 
down  the  doors  to  get  inside  the  Embassy  ...  to 
be  immediately  thrown  out  by  athletic  Englishmen, 
attaches  and  flunkeys  battling  loyally  side  by  side. 

All  the  invaders  were  flung  out  on  the  street  except 
one — a  man  in  a  Uhlan  uniform,  who,  sorely  beset 
by  a  young  Englishman  on  the  left  and  another  on  the 
right,  suddenly  shouted  in  unmistakable  American: 

"Say!  Cut  it  out!  I'm  not  a  punching-bag — nor 
am  I  a  Dutchman !" 

"I  should  say  you  aren't!"  came  the  noways  cordial 
rejoinder.  "You're  a  disgrace  to  your  country,  to 
America" — a  statement  accompanied  by  another  severe 
cuff — "and" — a  blow — "what  the  devil  do  vou  mean 
by  .  .  .'; 

"Cut  it  out!"  Tom  yelled  again,  defending  himself 
as  best  he  could.  "I  am  looking  for — for" — and,  side 
stepping  a  particularly  vicious  right  to  his  jaw,  he 
blurted  out:  "I  am  looking  for  the  guy  with  the 
B.E.D.  ring!" 

There  was  silence — broken  the  next  second  by  a 
drawling,  familiar  voice : 

"Hello,  hello,  hello!" 

Tom  turned.  There,  in  the  doorway,  stood  Vyvyan, 
and  the  Westerner,  relieved,  amazed,  gave  a  stammer 
ing,  gasping  exclamation : 

"Well  I'll  be  .  .  ." 

"Right-oh !"  Vyvyan  turned  to  the  young  attaches, 
who  had  again  laid  hold  of  Tom.  "It's  all  right,  dear 
chaps !  This  gentleman's  a  friend  of  mine.  He's  the 


3oo  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

chap  who  sent  McCaffrey  to  us  with  the  warning  about 
the  steamship  line — the  changed  names  and  rigging 
and  all  that  sort  of  rot.  Remember?" 

"Yes." 

"To  be  sure,"  wonderingly. 

"Very  well.  Then  don't  biff  him  any  more."  He 
turned  to  Tom.  "Come  along  up  to  my  room." 

Arrived  there,  to  the  Westerner's  first  question, 
Vyvyan  replied  that  he  had  never  left  Germany.  That 
time  when  he  had  been  sent  away  as  persona  non  grata, 
he  had  turned  straight  round  on  the  Holland  frontier 
and  had  come  back  to  Berlin. 

"I  have  been  here  ever  since,  doing  my  little  bit." 

"So  you  got  my  message  about  the  transfer  of  those 
ships  to  American  registry?" 

"Right-oh.  Thanks  awfully.  We  spoiled  that  lit 
tle  German  game.  Tell  you  all  about  it  some  other 
time.  And  now — what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

The  Westerner  explained,  and  Vyvyan  inclined  his 
honey-colored  head. 

"Certainly  I'll  help  you.  I'll  get  you  some  sort  of 
motor-car." 

"No,  no.  You  didn't  get  me,  Vyvyan.  I  don't 
know  a  darned  thing  about  machinery.  Between  you 
and  me,  I'm  afraid  of  it.  A  horse — that's  what  I've 
got  to  have — two  horses.  One  for  Bertha,  and  one 
for  me/' 

Vyvyan  smiled. 

"You  won't  have  to  drive,"  he  said. 

"Won't  I  though?" 

"Of  course  not.     I  shall  sit  at  the  wheel." 

"You?" 

"Yes.     I  am  coming  with  you." 

"Why?" 

And  Vyvyan  explained  that  the  German  •Govern- 


THE  MOB  SPEAKS  301 

ment  had  put  a  train  at  the  disposition  of  the  British 
Ambassador  to  leave  for  Holland  that  same  night. 

"But  our  German  friends  have  labeled  everybody 
who  is  supposed  to  be  with  the  Embassy  staff.  And, 
my  word,  I  am  not  supposed  to  be  here!  If  they 
catch  me,  they'll  line  me  up  against  a  neat  white  wall 
as  sure's  pop.  Old  Titmouse,  the  Ambassador, 
y'know,  is  trembling  about  that  jolly  little  contingency 
even  now.  Of  course  the  borders  into  neutral  coun 
tries  will  be  watched  very  close — for  spies.  But  the 
French  border,  the  battle  front?  There's  the  chance. 
And  now  you  come,  like  my  jolly  old  guardian  angel, 
and  solve  the  whole  question.  Yes.  I'll  go  with  you 
and  Miss  Bertha.  We'll  do  the  regular  Prussian  thing 
and  commandeer  the  first  speedy  looking  car  we  see 
in  Metz." 

"But — how  are  you  going  to  get  out  of  the  Em 
bassy?" 

"Nothing  to  it.  I  have  as  many  uniforms  as  the 
Emperor  himself.  Wait." 

Vyvyan  left,  and  returned  five  minutes  later  in  the 
complete  regimentals  of  a  Uhlan  of  the  Guard.  He 
saluted. 

"Herr  Kamerad!"  he  snarled,  and  drew  his  arm 
through  Tom's. 

"But" — stammered  the  latter,  pointing  at  the  win 
dow — "the  policemen  there — the  people.  They  will 
suspect !" 

"Tom!"  laughed  the  Englishman,  "there  are  times 
when  I  think  seriously  of  settling  in  America  and 
earning  an  honest  living  by  playing  poker  with  the 
natives.  Why,  when  it  comes  to  bluff,  I  have  you  tied 
to  the  mast.  Watch  me !" — and,  arm  in  arm  with  his 
friend,  he  left  the  Embassy  and  swaggered  up  to  the 
Captain  of  Police  in  charge  of  the  blue-coat  cordon. 


302  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"My  man,"  snarled  the  Englishman  in  his  very  best 
Prussian,  "I  just  brought  word  to  the  Ambassador 
from  His  All-Gracious  Majesty.  See  to  it  that  no 
body  leaves  the  building  without  permit.  Also" — he 
shook  his  ringer — "see  to  it  that  no  more  mobs  attack 
the  Embassy.  Understand?" 

"Zu  Befehl,  Herr  Hauptmann!" 

The  Police  Captain  saluted,  while  Vyvyan  an4  Tom 
turned  down  the  street.  They  parted  at  the  Pariser 
Platz. 

"Meet  me  at  the  depot  to-night,"  said  the  English 
man.  "I'll  get  the  tickets." 

Tom  looked  after  him.     He  shook  his  head. 

"You're  right,"  he  mumbled.  "You  ought  to  go  to 
America.  But  you'll  never  get  me  to  play  poker  with 
you!  No,  sir!" 


CHAPTER  XLII 

TOWARDS  THE  FRONTIER 

IT  was  fairly  late  in  the  afternoon  and  a  thunder 
storm  was  booming  from  the  north,  trailing  a  cloak  of 
sable  clouds  heavy  with  rain  across  the  face  of  the 
town,  whirling  down  the  streets  with  a  whipping 
wedge  of  hailstones  that  rattled  against  the  window- 
panes  like  machine  gun  bullets.  Lightning  zig 
zagged  in  fantastic  spikes  of  brilliant  white  and  elec 
tric  blue.  Thunder  sobbed  dully,  hopelessly,  like  the 
death  gurgle  of  a  shattered  world. 

Even  so,  ever-increasing  crowds  paraded  the  streets, 
spilling  from  houses  and  cafes  and  beer  gardens  out 
to  the  sidewalks  and  thence  to  the  pavements. 

Tom  had  taken  a  taxicab  back  to  barracks,  and  his 
driver  tooted  his  horn  continuously.  At  sight  of  the 
beloved  uniform,  the  shining  uhlanka,  the  silver  gray 
cape,  the  crowd  would  give  way,  often  with  cheers  and 
hurrahs. 

Many  were  drunk,  the  Westerner  noticed.  But,  too, 
he  noticed  that  many  others,  perfectly  sober  from  an 
alcoholic  view-point,  people  who,  to  judge  from  their 
sunken  eyes,  their  drawn  lips,  had  hardly  partaken  of 
food  in  the  gigantic  excitement  that  had  swirled 
through  the  German  capital  like  fog  in  the  brain  of  a 
blind  world,  behaved  even  more  extravagantly  than 
the  beer-soaked  hooligans  from  the  North-side  slums. 

They  sang  and  cursed  and  cheered  and  yelled. 

303 


304  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

First  had  been  the  fear  that  England  might  fight 
by  the  side  of  France  and  Russia,  a  fear  promptly 
argued  out  of  existence  by  stale  statistics  and  staler 
national  psychology.  Then,  like  a  thunder  clap,  had 
come  the  fact:  England  had  sent  an  ultimatum,  fol 
lowed  by  a  declaration  of  war.  Already  the  vanguard 
of  Britain's  army  was  crossing  the  channel  to  come 
to  the  help  of  France's  left  flank,  to  protect  Calais, 
to  battle,  later  on,  gloriously  at  the  Marne.  Already 
the  navy,  Britain's  floating  walls,  was  drawing  a  chok 
ing  net  across  Germany's  commercial  throat. 

Thus  nervous  reaction  had  come  to  the  crowd  like 
the  release  of  an  immense  steel  spring.  In  that  mad 
moment  Germany  welcomed  the  entry  of  yet  more 
enemies  into  the  battle  arena. 

"Eine  Welt  in  Waff  en!"  quoted  a  little  underfed, 
pimply  high  school  boy  from  a  text-book.  "A  world 
in  arms  against  us !" 

And,  at  once,  a  university  professor,  in  black  broad 
cloth,  steel  spectacles,  ragged  mustache,  dirty  shirt  and 
frayed  cuffs,  made  an  impromptu  speech  on  the  same 
subject.  He  started  academically,  but  wound  up  with 
incoherent  roars,  just  opening  his  huge  mouth,  show 
ing  his  decayed  teeth  and  yelling  mad,  pathetic  invec 
tives  at  France  and  England,  the  crowd  shouting  back 
its  approval. 

Another  time,  as  his  taxicab  was  caught  in  the  hu 
man  eddy  that  rolled  across  the  Janowitzer  Bridge, 
Tom  was  shocked  by  the  sight  of  a  middle-aged 
woman,  well  dressed  in  heliotrope  taffeta,  neat  shoes, 
white  kid  gloves,  and  a  little  black  Viennese  toque. 
Had  he  seen  her  back  home,  in  Spokane,  he  would 
have  said  that  she  was  the  wife  of  some  prosperous 
mining  man,  of  good  family,  soundly  respectable, 
rather  conservative,  most  likely  a  member  of  various 


TOWARDS  THE  FRONTIER  305 

progressive  civic  organizations  and  clubs,  and  the 
mother  of  a  large,  happy  family.  In  Berlin  she  was 
typical  of  the  higher  business  or  professional  class, 
belonging  to  the  soundest  burgess  society;  and  here 
she  stood,  at  the  curb,  her  neat  little  hat  awry,  her 
veil  torn,  waving  a  newspaper  in  her  hand,  and  shout 
ing  a  foaming,  babbling  stream  of  curses  and  obscen 
ities  against  France  and  England  and  Russia  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  world. 

Yet  more  scenes  as  Tom's  cab  progressed  up  the 
street : 

A  mad,  nauseating  hodge-podge  of  emotions,  of 
shouts  and  yells  and  indecencies,  a  very  miscarriage  of 
patriotism,  and  always  sprinkled  and  larded  with  God, 
Duty,  Kaiser,  Hearth,  Home,  Hurrah!  And  then 
more  curses,  more  belching  forth  of  savage  blood-lust ! 

A  cult  of  hatred !  A  cult  of  brutality !  A  cult  of 
obscenities  labeled  Love  of  Country!  And  Tom 
thought  it  less  terrible  than  pitiable.  He  found  it  in 
his  big,  simple  heart  to  pity  these  people,  top-heavy 
with  worship  of  self  and  iron  force,  weak-kneed  with 
meaningless,  sugary  sentimentality,  rotten  with  false 
standards  and  bad  beer. 

Never  in  all  his  life  had  Tom  loved  his  own  land 
as  during  that  drive.  Faults?  Of  course  America 
had  faults.  There  was  no  nation  this  side  of  millen 
nium  free  from  them.  A  nation  needs  faults,  like  the 
shadows  in  a  flame,  to  emphasize  its  brightness. 

But  the  faults  of  America  were  those  of  youth, 
added  to  those  of  an  ancient,  badly  digested,  May- 
flower  Puritanism,  faults  at  times  sharpened  and 
brought  into  clashing  contrast  by  the  continuous  immi 
gration  and  assimilation  of  tens  of  thousands  of  for 
eigners.  Historical,  geographical  faults  rather  than 
national,  or  racial! 


306  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

But — Germany?     New  Germany? 

Why  .  .  .  There  was  that  respectable  middle-aged 
woman,  there  was  the  pimply  schoolboy,  the  spectacled 
professor  .  .  .  And  all  mouthing  mean  obscenities, 
polluting  the  very  God  in  whom  they  professed  to  be 
lieve. 

Yes!  America,  too,  had  faults,  but  (Tom  smiled 
as  he  coined  the  phrase)  they  were  such  damned  de 
cent  faults ! — while  these  ...  He  shivered  a  little. 

"Hurry  up!"  he  said  to  the  driver,  as  the  crowd 
thinned,  farther  north  where,  in  the  drab,  reeking  ten 
ements  that  clustered  around  the  barracks,  the  martial 
enthusiasm  decreased  proportionately  with  the  misery 
of  the  people  who  lived  there. 

Tom  did  not  know  how  excited  he  was,  and  it  was 
this  very  ignorance  of  his  own  emotions  which  helped 
him  to  dovetail  minutely  each  tiny  detail  of  his  plans, 
to  switch  promptly  when  circumstances  necessitated 
it,  from  the  moment  the  machine  stopped  in  front  of 
the  barracks. 

A  dozen  or  so  men  in  dingy,  peaked  sweaters  were 
standing  at  the  curb,  looking  up  at  the  great  building. 

"Our  turn  to-morrow,"  said  one  rather  hopelessly, 
with  a  malevolent  glance  at  Tom's  uniform;  and  a 
woman  of  the  streets,  blowzy,  enormous,  vulgar,  spat. 
A  policeman  ordered  her  brutally  on  her  way. 

Tom  paid  the  driver,  was  about  to  dismiss  him,  then, 
rapidly  reconsidering,  asked  him  to  come  back  in  ten 
minutes  and  wait. 

Inside  the  barracks  the  reservists,  tired  out  with  the 
strenuous  drill  of  the  last  twelve  hours,  had  thrown 
themselves  down  wherever  they  could  to  snatch  a  few 
hours  of  sleep  before  the  morning  when  the  long,  gray 
troop  trains  would  carry  them  to  the  frontier.  Some 
were  writing  messages  of  farewell  to  friends  and  fam- 


TOWARDS  THE  FRONTIER  307 

ilies,  two  or  three  were  sitting  in  corners  by  them 
selves,  staring  at  the  floor  with  unseeing  eyes. 

One  was  choking  down  hysterical  sobs.  Tom  patted 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Don't  give  in!"  he  whispered  reassuringly,  and 
passed  on,  down  the  long  corridor  that  ran  parallel  to 
the  gymnasium,  leaving  to  his  left  the  under-officers' 
mess,  whence  came  broken  bits  of  song  and  talk. 

There  was  no  light  in  Captain  von  Quitzow's  room 
nor  in  that  of  von  Konigsmark,  and  Tom  breathed 
more  freely.  It. would  be  easier  than  he  thought  to 
make  his  get-away. 

But,  when  he  opened  the  door  to  his  own  room,  he 
stopped  on  the  threshold,  thunderstruck.  For  there, 
evidently  waiting  for  him,  sat  von  Quitzow.  For  a 
moment  the  Westerner  was  frightened,  nervous.  He 
even  thought  in  a  flash  of  the  chance  of  attacking  the 
other,  knocking  him  unconscious,  if  need  be  of  killing 
him.  But  the  German's  first  words  reassured  him : 

"I  am  so  glad  you  have  come.  So  very  glad!" 
The  big  Junker  wiped  his  steaming  red  face  with  his 
handkerchief.  "Von  Konigsmark  asked  me  for  leave. 
He  wants  to  say  good-by  to  his  mother,  and  I  let  him 
go.  Those  reserve  officers  have  all  turned  in — soft, 
civilian  cattle — tired  out  after  half  a  day's  work — 
and,"  he  added  plaintively,  "I'm  all  alone." 

"What's  wrong?"  laughed  Tom.  "Seeing  the 
ghosts  of  former  wars?" 

"No.  Only  .  .  ."  Again  he  wiped  his  face.  He 
looked  at  Tom,  his  soul,  his  whole  self  involved,  con 
fused,  his  sense  of  duty  and  discipline  battling  against 
the  soft  streak  in  his  nature.  "You  see,"  he  went  on, 
"there's  a  little  girl.  We  play  duets  together,  she  the 
piano,  and  I  the  violin.  Ach!  You  should  hear  us 
play  that  Grieg  concerto,  so  beautiful,  so  sweet !  And 


308  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

she  lives  quite  a  ways  out  in  the  Westend,  and  ..." 

Tom's  mind  worked  quickly. 

"I  get  you.  Want  to  have  a  last  shot  at  that  Grieg 
whatever-you-call-it,  and  perhaps  give  her  pouting  lips 
a  farewell  smack,  eh?  And  here  you  are,  in  charge 
of  the  barracks,  orders  and  all  that  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  yes !"  replied  the  other  breathlessly. 

"All  right.  Forget  the  orders.  Forget  Colonel 
Wedekind.  He'll  never  find  out.  I'll  look  after 
things.  Go  on  and  hug  your  girl.  No,  no,"  as  von 
Quitzow  stammered  objections  and  thanks  all  in  the 
same  breath,  "it's  perfectly  O.  K. !  Run  along  and 
play.  You  needn't  come  back  till  the  wee,  sma'  hours. 
I  won't  give  you  away." 

A  great,  naive  smile  overspread  the  Junker's  round 
face. 

"Thanks!"  he  bellowed,  buckled  on  his  saber,  and 
ran  out  of  the  room. 

"Item  Number  One!"  Tom  checked  it  off  on  his 
fingers.  "And  now,  what  next  ?  To  be  sure !  We'll 
try  the  same  sugar  pap  on  my  servant." 

He  rang  the  bell  and  his  Bursche,  a  squat,  yellow- 
haired  Mecklenburg  lad,  appeared,  clicking  his  heels. 

"Hans,"  said  Tom,  "I  won't  need  you  any  more 
to-night.  You  have  leave — all  night  leave.  Go  on 
and  kiss  your  Gretchen !" 

Came  another  bellow  of  Teutonic  thanks : 

"Vielen,  znelen  Dank,  Herr  Leutnant!" 

"Same  to  you  and  many  of  'em!"  murmured  the 
Westerner  after  the  servant  had  left,  checked  off  the 
second  item  as  satisfactorily  disposed  of,  and  turned 
to  the  third. 

He  thought  for  several  minutes,  then  he  took  a  piece 
of  paper,  scribbled  furiously,  went  out  to  the  street  and 
spoke  to  the  taxicab  driver,  who  had  returned. 


TOWARDS  THE  FRONTIER  309 

"Shoot  along  to  the  next  telegraph  station  and  send 
off  this  message,  as  fast  as  you  can.  Served  your 
three  years  in  the  army?" 

"Yes,  Herr  Leutnantl" 

"All  right.     Then  you  know  how  to  obey." 

"Yes,  Herr  Leutnantl" 

"Very  well.  Listen.  Take  this  message,  have  it 
telegraphed  as  I  said,  but  don't  you  dare  look  at  the 
contents.  Militdrgeheimniss  —  military  secret  —  you 
understand?  Too,  you  tell  the  chap  at  the  telegraph 
office  he's  to  forget  every  word  of  the  message  as  soon 
as  he  has  ticked  it  off.  Tell  him  to  keep  no  record  of 
it  if  he  values  his  skin.  It's  in  code,  but  there  are 
dozens  of  spies  about.  My  man,"  continued  Tom, 
quoting  shamelessly  from  one  of  Colonel  Wedekind's 
favorite  slogans,  "I  rely  upon  you,  the  army  does,  the 
Emperor !" 

"Zu  Befehl,  Herr  Leutnant!"  came  the  enthusiastic 
reply,  and  the  driver  purred  away  while  Tom  called 
after  him  to  return  in  half  an  hour. 

He  grinned  mischievously. 

"I,  the  army,  the  Emperor!  Bully  old  high  sign, 
that.  Wait  till  I  get  back  home  to  Spokane  and  put 
my  brother  Elks  wise  to  it !" 

In  his  room  once  more  he  went  rapidly  through  his 
belongings,  slipped  whatever  official  papers  he  had, 
such  as  his  commission,  his  transfer  to  war  school,  and 
his  appointment  as  regimental  remount  officer,  in  his 
despatch  bag,  and  changed  into  a  serviceable  field  uni 
form  of  grayish  green.  He  put  on  uhlanka  and  cape, 
girded  himself  with  saber  and  a  brace  of  heavy-caliber 
cavalry  pistols;  then,  after  a  moment's  deliberation, 
smiling  softly  to  himself,  he  packed  a  leather  case  with 
his  Mexican  spurs,  his  range  quirt,  an  additional  long, 
sweeping  full-dress  uniform  cape  of  silver  gray  lined 


3io  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

with  crimson,  and  an  extra  pair  of  riding-boots  and 
uhlanka. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  a  messenger  brought  a  tele 
gram — the  telegram  which  Tom  had  sent  off  with  the 
help  of  the  driver,  not  to  forget  Colonel  Wedekind's 
Prussian  shibboleth. 

He  tore  it  open  and  read. 

It  was  addressed  to  Lieutenant  Graves,  Uhlans  of 
the  Guard,  Berlin,  was  signed  with  the  Colonel's  name, 
and  ordered  the  recipient  to  take  the  next  train  for 
Metz  and  report  there. 

Tom  laughed. 

"Fine  and  dandy !" 

In  the  upper  left-hand  corner  of  the  telegram  was 
the  date  and  the  place  whence  it  had  been  ticked — 
Berlin. 

"That  won't  do!"  decided  the  Westerner,  and  tore 
off  the  corner. 

Then  he  went  to  von  Quitzow's  room,  put  the  mes 
sage  on  the  latter's  table,  and  scribbled  a  few  words 
telling  the  Junker  not  to  worry.  He  was  sorry  that 
he  had  to  go.  Orders !  The  other  would  understand. 
But  everything  was  all  right  in  barracks,  and,  if  von 
Quitzow  kept  his  mouth  shut,  nobody  need  ever  know 
that  for  one  night  the  Uhlan  barracks  had  been  left 
without  an  officer  in  charge. 

By  this  time  it  was  past  ten,  and  the  taxicab  had 
returned.  Tom  picked  up  leather  case  and  despatch 
bag  and  crossed  the  endless  corridors  of  the  huge,  gray 
building.  All  the  lights  were  out  in  the  quarters  of 
the  reserve  officers.  The  dormitories  and  the  under- 
officers'  mess  were  as  still  as  a  grave. 

Tom  blew  a  mocking  kiss  in  the  direction  of  the 
great  Imperial  Standard  of  Germany  that  draped  its 
braggart  folds  above  the  door  of  the  adjutant's  office. 


TOWARDS  THE  FRONTIER        -311 

"I'se  gwine  to  leave  yo',  honey, 
Su'  I  is !"  ... 

he  hummed,  remembering  an  old  minstrel  song,  went 
down  the  stairs,  entered  the  cab,  and  told  the  driver  to 
go  to  the  depot.  He  reached  there  at  eleven,  ate  a 
comfortable  meal  at  the  station  restaurant,  and  strolled 
out  on  the  platform  looking  for  his  friend. 

A  moment  later  he  found  him,  nonchalantly 
sprawled  on  a  bench  in  the  waiting-room,  reading  a 
late  newspaper.  The  man  seemed  utterly  fearless, 
utterly  sure  of  himself,  and  Tom,  too,  realized  that 
there  was  little  danger.  The  German  war  machine 
was  efficient,  but,  as  nearly  always  in  the  case  of  too 
much  efficiency,  it  was  utterly  unprepared  to  cope  with 
an  emergency  not  contained  in  the  proper  statistics 
and  text-books.  Later  on,  the  fact  of  it  was  destined 
to  be  demonstrated  on  a  large  scale  when  forty  years' 
unceasing,  ultra-efficient  preparation  broke  down,  at 
the  very  gates  of  Paris,  before — not  cannons  and  rifles, 
for  in  that  the  Germans  had  an  overwhelming  advan 
tage,  but  before  the  calm  faith  in  the  souls  of  the 
individual  French,  Belgian  and  British  soldiers  that  the 
world  must  remain  sound. 

To-night,  the  same  apparatus  of  efficiency  broke 
down  before  the  poker  sense,  in  a  way  the  sense  of 
humor,  of  two  Anglo-Saxons. 

"Guten  Abend,  Hcrr  Kamerad!"  snarled  the  Eng 
lishman,  and  the  American  returned  the  salute  and  sat 
down  by  his  side.  Together,  without  speaking,  they 
looked  out  on  the  platform. 

It  was  crowded  with  officers  of  all  ranks  and  all 
regiments,  Prussians,  Bavarians,  Badensers,  Saxons, 
and  a  sprinkling  of  Austrians  and  Hungarians.  Some 
of  them  were  in  their  cups  and  exchanging  drunken 
boasts;  others  had  endless  conversations  with  women 


312  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

of  all  classes — their  wives  and  sisters  and  mothers, 
but  also  their  mistresses,  and  even  with  women  of  the 
underworld,  rank,  vicious,  unmistakable.  The  coming 
of  war  had  finally  shattered  the  fiber  of  their  moral 
life,  their  moral  perceptions,  their  moral  prejudices. 
For  once,  being  potential  heroes,  looked  up  to  by  all 
classes,  even  the  grumbling  Liberals  and  the  discon 
tented  Radicals,  as  defenders  of  the  Fatherland  and 
conquerors  of  Belgium,  Britain,  France,  and  the  world 
in  general,  they  felt  free  to  do  exactly  what  and  how 
they  pleased. 

And  they  did. 

To-night  the  uniform  was  an  excuse  for  license, 
where  formerly  it  had  been  only  one  for  arrogance 
and  stiff,  rectangular  class  consciousness. 

A  white-haired  General  was  walking  arm  in  arm 
with  a  notorious  soubrette  of  the  Metropol  Theatre. 

Two  infantry  lieutenants,  beardless,  rosy-cheeked, 
pitifully  young,  just  gazetted,  took  turns  in  kissing  a 
middle-aged,  overdressed  cocotte  of  the  Tauentzien 
quarter. 

And  there  were  other  similar  scenes,  the  decent 
women,  the  mothers  and  sisters  and  wives,  seeming  not 
to  see,  or  not  to  mind. 

"Nasty,  lascivious  beast — this  Prussian  war  ma 
chine,"  murmured  Vyvyan.  "Gad!  I  shiver  when  I 
think  of  the  women  of  France  and  Belgium !" 

"Wow  there !"  whispered  Tom,  gripping  the  other's 
arm,  "steady!  Steady,  old  hoss!" 

But  his  own  lips  quivered  as  he  saw  Mrs.  Wedekind 
and  Bertha  move  slowly  through  the  throng  towards 
the  waiting  train. 

"Let's  go !"  said  Vyvyan.  "I've  bought  the  tickets 
and  greased  several  official  hands.  I've  a  coupe  re 
served  for  us.  That's  one  thing  you  can  do  in  Ger- 


TOWARDS  THE  FRONTIER  313 

many,  war  or  peace:  Trinkgeld — tips!  Goes  nearly 
as  far  as  'Zu  Befehl!' ' 

They  entered  a  first-class  compartment,  marked 
"Rcscrvirt"  and,  a  few  minutes  later,  came  the  sta 
tion  master's  shrill  whistle  of  departure,  and  his 
cadenced  call: 

"All  aboard  for  Magdeburg — Gotha — Meiningen — 
Frankfort — Darmstadt — Metz!  Metz!  All  aboard 
for  Metz  and  the  frontier !" 

A  belch  of  acrid  smoke.  A  clank  and  rattle.  The 
officers  and  the  few  civilians  rushed  to  their  carriages. 
A  chorus  of  farewells,  last  messages,  last  boasts : 

"Back  in  two  months,  Miitterchen!" 

"Don't  you  worry,  sweetheart.  I'll  bring  you 
something  nice  from  France !" 

"Tell  Karl  and  Franz  to  work  at  their  school 
lessons,  or — Donnerwetter  noch  Jmal — when  I  get 
back  .  .  ." 

"Auf  Wiedersehen,  Schatz!" 

"What  d'you  want,  Minna?  A  Belgian  General? 
All  right.  I'll  send  him  by  parcel  post !" 

"You  mind  your  P's  and  Q's  while  I'm  away, 
Emma,  d'you  hear?" 

"Good-by!     Good-by!" 

And  a  final,  bragging  altogether  shout  of  : 

"Nach  Paris!  Nach  Paris!  Mit  Gott  filr  Kdnig 
und  Vaterland!"  while  the  train  clanked  out  into  the 
night,  towards  Metz,  the  frontier,  France.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

METZ 

HARDLY  was  the  train  out  of  the  Berlin  depot  when 
Tom  Graves  turned  to  his  friend  and  asked  the  one 
question  that  had  been  puzzling  him  for  so  many 
weeks : 

"Vyvyan,"  he  said,  "what  is  the  secret  of  the 
Yankee  Doodle  Glory?  The  secret  why  I  ..." 

"Why  you  were  caught  in  the  German  Web  and 
jolly  near  crushed?  You  and  Bertha  and  Martin 
Wedekind  and  your  old  partner  Truex  and  God  knows 
how  many  others  ?  Why  both  you  and  Truex  received 
that  cable  from  Johannes  Hirschfeld  &  Cie,  offering 
an  exorbitant  price  for  control  of  the  mine?  Why 
Baron  von  Gotz-Wrede  came  to  Spokane,  making  you 
a  similar  offer?  Why,  half  jokingly,  he  made  you 
promise  to  visit  him  in  Berlin  ?  Why  Bertha  was  called 
there  by  a  faked  telegram  to  act  as  bait  for  your  inno 
cence?  Why  Truex  was  kidnapped  and  Eberhardt 
Lehneke  found  ?  Why,  failing  in  this,  they  made  you 
a  German  citizen  by  asking  you  to  join  the  army? 
Why  you  had  to  sign  the  paper  that  gave  control  to 
the  German  Government  ?  Why  they  chucked  Gamble 
and  put  their  own  engineers  in  charge?  Why  they 
subsidized  a  steamship  line  to  Hamburg  from  Tacoma  ? 
Why,  when  you  seemed  obstreperous  and  less  innocent 
than  at  first  they  had  imagined,  they  tried  to  murder 
you  in  a  shameful  duel?  Why,  after  I  had  caused 
the  Hongkong  authorities  to  refuse  clearance  papers 

314 


METZ  315 

to  the  first  ship  of  the  line,  bound  from  Tacoma  to 
Germany,  they  tried  to  transfer  the  line  to  American 
registry,  first  through  Wedekind  by  holding  his  daugh 
ter  as  a  hostage,  then,  Wedekind  refusing  to  be  bul 
lied,  through  you?" 

"Yes !"  laughed  Tom.  "All  these  several  and  many 
Why's !  Also — why  did  you  get  that  sudden  wireless 
appointment  to  Berlin  when  the  wireless  was  bust? 
Why  did  they  have  you  recalled  as  persona  non  grata? 
Why  did  you  make  me  promise  not  to  give  up  the 
mine?  Why  .  .  ." 

"Oh!  You  did  catch  on  to  one  or  two  things, 
what?"  It  was  the  Englishman's  turn  to  laugh. 
"Well — the  answer  to  all  these  Why's  is  the  unknown 
metal  in  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory !" 

"That  stuff  that  scared  Truex,  affected  the  sense 
of  hearing  of  the  workers,  puzzled  Newson  Gar- 
rett  .  .  ." 

"And  did  not  puzzle  the  German  chemist — wasn't 
Conrad  Sturtzel  his  name  ? — in  New  York !  Right-oh, 
old  dear.  You  have  it !" 

"Except,"  said  Tom,  "what  the  fool  metal  is  sup 
posed  to  be  good  for.  They  ran,  tried  to  run,  that 
line  of  steamers  to  ship  the  ore,  didn't  they?" 

"Go  to  the  head  of  the  class !" 

"But  .  .  ." 

"The  answer  is — Great  Britain,  Sea  Power !" 

Lord  Vyvyan  went  on  to  say  that  Germany,  prepar 
ing  for  war,  had  always  lulled  itself  into  the  blissful 
belief  that  Great  Britain  would  repeat  the  blunder  of 
Eighteen  Hundred  and  Seventy,  would  sit  tight  on  its 
money  bags,  and  watch,  nervously,  selfishly,  with  pro 
tests,  but  without  telling  deeds,  the  dismemberment  of 
France.  France  crushed,  new  iron  and  coal  fields  an 
nexed,  Germany  would  then  have  consolidated  her 


'3 1 6  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

power,  prepared  another  forty  years,  and  swooped 
down  upon  England. 

"But,"  cut  in  Tom,  "the  British  navy?  Your  mer 
chant  marine  ?  Your  rich  colonies  ready  to  help  you  ?" 

"Exactly !"  Vyvyan  inclined  his  head.  "That's  just 
what  puzzled  the  German  war  clique.  They  have  a 
great  army — an  army  that  has  fought.  Too,  they 
have  a  navy.  But  it  is  an  untried  affair,  their  navy, 
without  traditions,  without  practical  training.  While 
our  very  life,  our  very  blood,  our  very  secret  thoughts, 
are  bound  up  with  the  sea,  the  navy,  the  merchant 
marine." 

"Sure,"  grinned  Tom,  with  a  malicious  little  wink, 
"I  know  .  .  .  'Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves  .  .  / 
I  heard  tanked  remittancemen  sing  it  out  West,  on  the 
Killicott  .  .  ." 

"They  sang  the  truth,"  came  Vyvyan's  sober,  un 
smiling  comment,  "and  Germany  knew  that  it  was  the 
truth.  Of  course  they  have  submarines.  They'll  use 
them  mercilessly,  I  know,  and  they'll  do  a  frightful 
lot  of  damage,  they'll  spill  oceans  of  innocent  blood. 
But  they'll  jolly  well  fail  when  it  comes  to  the  last 
chapter.  For  we  are  a  race  of  sailors.  And  then  that 
Sturtzel  chap  in  New  York  or  whatever  is  his  filthy 
name,  got  that  ore  sample  from  Newson  Garrett,  and 
the  German  Secret  Service  got  properly  busy.  For 
the  unknown  ingredient  is  .  .  ." 

"What?"  asked  Tom,  breathlessly. 

"I'm  no  bally  good  at  chemistry  and  all  that  sort 
of  scientific  drivel.  But,  as  near  as  I  can  make  it  out, 
it's  some  stuff  which,  prepared,  used  a  certain  way, 
causes  sound  waves  to  multiply  a  hundredfold  in  as 
many  fathoms  of  water  as  you  jolly  well  please.  A 
submarine  fitted  out  with  whatever  devilish  ingenuity 
the  German  engineers  jolted  together  with  that  ingre- 


METZ  317 

dient  of  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory,  could  lay  doggo 
on  the  bottom  of  the  ocean,  listen  for  hundreds  of 
miles  to  the  sound  of  the  propellers  of  merchant  and 
warships,  wait  for  the  psychological  moment,  pop  up, 
shoot  a  torpedo,  and  pop  down  again.  Such  subma 
rines  would  spell  death  to  British  sea  power.  All 
rather  clumsily  expressed.  But,  I  s'pose  you  get  it?" 

"Sure."  Tom  scratched  his  red  head.  "All's  as 
clear  as  pea  soup.  Only — where  exactly  do  you  sit  in 
this  game?  How  did  you  get  wise  to  all  this  dope?" 

"I'm  in  the  British  Secret  Service" — he  took  out  the 
little  silver  ring  and  pointed  at  the  three  letters: 
B.  E.  D.  "British  Ethnological  Department,"  he  gave 
the  innocuous  translation,  and  then,  to  Tom's  further 
questions,  he  replied  that  the  trouble  with  England, 
and  incidentally  with  America,  was  that  men  like  him 
self  were  held  at  a  discount  at  home. 

"It's  different  in  Germany.  A  German  Secret  Serv 
ice  man  has  all  the  help  he  wants,  all  the  money,  every 
last  bit  of  assistance  the  War  or  Foreign  Ministries 
can  possibly  give  him.  With  us" — he  laughed  bit 
terly — "we  are  lone  wolves,  we  hunt  alone,  and  when 
we  are  caught,  God  help  us !  Our  Government  won't ! 
Those  smug  chaps  back  in  London  will  shrug  their 
shoulders,  promptly  deny  our  existence,  and  pass  on  to 
the  next  County  cricket  match.  So,  you  see,  old  chap, 
I  played  a  lone  hand.  Of  course  we  have  some  money, 
contributed  by  patriotic  individuals,  but  nothing  to 
compare  with  what  our  German  confreres  can  draw 
on.  That's  why,  once  I  found  out  about  the  secret 
ingredient  in  the  Yankee  Doodle  Glory,  I  didn't  make 
you  an  offer  for  it,  as  the  Baron  did."  He  interrupted 
himself.  "Wait.  I'm  doing  myself  an  injustice. 
There  was  still  another  reason.  A  wretched  racial 
short-coming  .  .  ." 


3 1 8  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"You  mean — that  time  when  you  whispered  to  your 
self  that  you  couldn't  accept  a  block  of  stock  in  the 
Yankee  Doodle  Glory?  That  it  wouldn't  be  playing 
the  game?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Englishman.  "To  keep  the  Yan 
kee  Doodle  away  from  German  hands,  that's  one  thing. 
But  to  acquire  it  for  England,  under  false  pretenses, 
to  even  acquire  a  small  interest  in  it?  Why,  man, 
don't  you  see  ?  You  and  I  are  of  the  same  stock,  the 
same  blood.  But — there  was  that  silly  old  josser  of 
a  King  George  the  Third,  and  there  were  also  Wash 
ington  and  Franklin.  Well — our  two  rations  are 
friends,  at  peace  forever,  I  hope.  But  suppose  some 
thing  should  happen,  suppose  the  German  element  in 
your  country,  attaching  to  it  other,  dissatisfied,  ele 
ments  should  attain  power,  perhaps  the  Presidency,  get 
the  majority  in  Congress.  Suppose  .  .  ." 

"War  between  England  and  America?" 

"Yes.  A  far-fetched  possibility.  Perhaps,  God 
grant,  an  absolute  impossibility.  But — who  can  tell? 
This  war,  too,  was  unexpected.  All  the  world  will 
be  drawn  into  it.  America,  too,  who  knows!  Then, 
if  I  owned  that  mine,  if  I  had  piled  up  tons  of  the 
unknown  ingredient,  your  land  and  mine  at  each 
other's  throats,  why — can't  you  see  the  temptation  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Tom  gravely. 

"That's  why  I  side-stepped  it.  I  did  not  want  the 
mine.  I  did  not  want  to  acquire  it  under  rotten,  false 
pretenses,  and  then  use  it  against  your  land — after 
you  might  have  sold  it  in  good  faith.  I  fancy  I'm  not 
a  very  efficient  Secret  Service  man,"  he  added  whim 
sically. 

Silently  Tom  Graves  shook  his  hand.  Silently  they, 
sat,  facing  each  other,  while  the  train  hooted  through 
the  gray  night,  skirting  the  flat  meadows  of  the  Havel, 


METZ  319 

passing  Potsdam  that  was  a  splotch  of  sad  black  punc 
tured  with  malign,  flickering,  yellow  lights,  on  to 
Magdeburg,  the  first  stop. 

Morning  came  with  the  latter  town,  and  with  morn 
ing,  as  the  train  rolled  away  southwest  to  the  Weser, 
the  rolling,  pleasant  fields,  the  neat  white  highways, 
the  very  oak  forests  that  stabbed,  wedge-shaped,  into 
the  distance,  seemed  alive  with  soldiers  on  foot  and  on 
horseback  or  bumping  woodenly  on  rumbling  gun  car 
riages.  On  they  swarmed  to  the  west  in  endless  lines 
of  trucks  and  lorries,  or  on  railway  lines  paralleling 
the  main  road  with  every  form  of  carriage  pressed 
into  war  service,  from  the  newest  affair  turned  out  of 
the  Stettin  yards  to  historical  bits  of  rusty  iron  rescued 
from  the  Breslau  scrap  heap,  from  the  luxurious 
wagon-lits  of  the  Southern  Express  to  drab,  rickety 
cattle  cars  that,  up  to  twenty-four  hours  before  the 
war,  had  carried  thousand  of  tons  of  live  Russian  geese 
and  Serbian  pigs  to  feed  Germany's  crunching  maw. 

The  Metz  train,  carrying  a  number  of  high-ranking 
officers,  had  the  right  of  way,  and  the  soldiers  turned 
and  cheered  as  they  saw,  painted  on  every  car,  the 
flashing  initials  that  proved  the  train  to  be  in  the  serv 
ice  of  the  General  Staff. 

At  every  station  there  were  troops,  crowds,  flags, 
bands.  There  was  hustle  and  bustle.  Singing,  laugh 
ter,  shouting.  Words  of  command.  Curses. 

Booted,  spurred  officers  piled  into  the  train,  half-a- 
dozen  of  them  into  Tom's  and  Vyvyan's  compartment. 
Two  were  staff  officers,  conscious  of  their  importance, 
the  other  four  young  subalterns  of  a  crack  Saxon  Hus 
sar  regiment,  a  little  the  worse  for  liquor  and  inclined 
to  be  boisterous. 

There  was  an  exchange  of  salutes,  and  inquiries 
about  the  latest  news  from  the  capital. 


320  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Any  more  declarations  of  war?" 

"Is  it  true  that  England  has  mobilized  all  the  Cen 
tral  African  gorillas  and  put  them  into  kilts?"  And 
ringing  laughter,  and  more  questions,  rather  more 
serious. 

But  they  hardly  listened  to  Vyvyan's  replies,  though 
the  latter,  in  his  role  as  "Berliner"  officer,  succeeded 
in  being  every  bit  as  drawling  and  inane  as  he  had 
been  in  his  native  language  when  the  Westerner  had 
first  met  him  aboard  the  Augsburg.  Their  questions 
were  really  only  meant  rhetorically — boasting,  arro 
gant  questions  that  were  supposed  to  answer  them 
selves — all  about  German  preparedness,  German  great 
ness,  German  invincibility,  German  triumph.  All 
about  the  German  Herren  Nation — the  Fate-chosen 
Race  of  Masters,  of  Supermen ! 

For  that  day,  with  the  scent  of  blood  in  their  nos 
trils,  the  ruling  caste  of  Prussia  was  keyed  to  its 
highest,  shrillest  note. 

Tom  clenched  his  fist.  Savage  they  seemed  to  him, 
but,  too,  childish  and,  somehow,  whining,  as  if  not 
quite  sure  of  themselves  in  spite  of  their  brave,  clank 
ing  words. 

There  was  a  little  infantry  lieutenant  sitting  across 
from  him — wizened,  silly,  a  vacant,  fatuous  smile  curl 
ing  his  thick,  cherry-red,  sensuous  lips.  He  was 
speaking  about  himself,  as  a  chosen  specimen  of  the 
race  of  Supermen. 

A  wave  of  nauseating  disgust  swept  over  the  Amer 
ican.  Pleading  a  headache,  he  closed  his  eyes.  At 
his  left,  the  two  General  Staff  officers  were  conversing 
in  a  sibilant,  dramatic  undertone. 

"That  Thionville  plan  is  a  bluff,"  said  the  one.  "I 
tell  you  it's  going  to  be  .  .  ." 

'Verdun?     Has  the  Crown  Prince  .  .  ,"• 


METZ  321 

Tom  closed  his  eyes  yet  more  tightly.  Presently  he 
commenced  snoring.  An  hour  later,  night  already 
brushing  low,  the  train  pulled  into  Metz. 

The  depot  was  in  a  turmoil.  Other  trains  were  rat 
tling  in  from  all  directions,  from  Stuttgart  and  Coburg 
and  Dresden  and  Munich,  all  carrying  officers  and  high 
civilian  officials,  the  latter  the  vanguard  of  that  army 
of  governors  and  judges  and  tax  collectors  whom  ef 
ficient  Germany  had  already  appointed  to  rule  the  lands 
to  be  conquered  and  stolen. 

Vyvyan  and  Tom  passed  rapidly  down  the  platform 
and  out  to  the  street.  They  saw  Mrs.  Wedekind  and 
Bertha  enter  a  cab. 

"I  shall  try  and  see  what  I  can  do  about  comman 
deering  a  motor-car.  Once  I  have  it,  I  can't  hang 
around  town  with  it.  No  joy-riding  in  time  of  war. 
I  must  take  it  somewhere.  Let  me  see — "  he  paused, 
thought,  then  asked :  "You  know  Metz  ?" 

"No." 

"Listen,  then."  Vyvyan  gave  a  string  of  rapid  di 
rections,  winding  up  with :  "You  can't  miss  the  Arch 
bishop's  palace.  From  there  you  turn  straight  west, 
out  to  the  fortifications.  You've  got  to  bluff  there." 

"You  bet."  Tom  smiled.  "You  know  a  whole  lot 
about  this  town,  don't  you  ?" 

"Rather.  Did  a  bit  of  work  here  once.  Beyond 
the  outer  ring  of  fortifications  is  an  old  fort.  A  sort 
of  curiosity.  They  don't  use  it  any  more  except  for 
summer  picnics.  It's  called  the  Hohenzollernwarte. 
Just  the  other  side  of  it  you'll  find  a  thick  clump  of 
beech  trees.  I'll  meet  you  there  with  whatever  car  I 
manage  to  commandeer." 

"We  got  to  hurry." 

"Of  course,"  said  the  Englishman,  a  little  impa 
tiently.  "That's  no  news." 


322  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

"Sure.  But  .  .  .  Say,  'member  when  I  fell  asleep 
on  the  train?" 

"Rather.     You  snored  damnably/' 

"Well,  it  was  a  fake  snore.  I  was  listening.  Yes, 
sir,  I  stole  your  thunder,  my  Secret  Service  friend! 
I  was  listening  to  those  two  staff  officers." 

Vyvyan  looked  up  excited. 

"What  did  they  say?" 

"They  said  that  the  proposed  attack  from  Thionville 
against  Verdun  is  only  a  feint,  a  bluff.  The  real  at 
tack  is  going  to  be  launched  direct  from  Metz.  They 
say  they're  going  to  catch  the  French  with  their  boots 
off!" 

"They  will  not!" 

"You  said  something  there,  young  fellow.  You 
just  bet  they  will  not — if  you  get  the  motor-car,  and 
can  drive  as  I  can  ride !" 

And  they  shook  hands  and  parted,  the  Englishman 
turning  north,  the  American,  despatch  case  and  leather 
bag  swinging  from  his  left  arm,  saber  truculently 
bumping  against  the  ground,  turning  south,  towards 
the  Marienkirche — and  Bertha. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

THE  BLUFF 

TOM  GRAVES,  walking  down  the  ancient,  curling 
streets  of  Metz,  noticed  a  subtle  difference  between 
the  atmosphere  of  war  as  it  was  here  and  as  it  had 
been  in  Berlin.  There,  straight  through  all  the  pomp 
and  clank  and  vainglorious,  childish  boasting,  had  been 
a  fantastic,  extravagant,  enigmatical  streak.  A  streak 
of  unreality.  For  Berlin,  heart  of  the  Empire,  is,  by 
the  same  token,  at  a  safe  distance  from  the  frontier, 
while  Metz  focused  sharply,  shudderingly  into  the 
radius  of  actual  hostilities.  Thus  voices  were  more 
hushed  here;  there  was  just  the  least  little  bit  less  brag 
ging,  and  people  went  rapidly,  directly  on  their  way, 
giving  odd,  nervous  starts  when  an  airplane  zummed 
overhead  like  a  monstrous,  steel-ribbed  insect. 

Tom  found  the  ancient  church  of  St.  Mary  fronting 
the  street  with  a  centuries-old  cemetery,  its  narrow, 
baroque  contours  flanked  by  two  uneven  steeples,  peak 
ing  up  to  the  star-frosted  night  sky  line  like  thin  shafts 
of  rigging. 

Through  the  half -open  doors  came  deep  chanting, 
a  sharp  scent  of  incense,  flickering  fingers  of  light. 
Worshipers  came  and  went,  some  returning  from  the 
altar,  where  they  had  burned  candles  to  the  Virgin  for 
their  sons  about  to  go  forth  into  battle,  others  arriving 
early  to  sob  out  their  souls  in  the  midnight  Mass. 
There  was  a  sprinkling  of  private  soldiers  and  officers, 
Catholics  from  Bavaria  in  light-blue  or  bottle-green 

323 


324  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

regimentals,  and  a  few  Austrians,  curiously  ill  at  ease. 
Nobody  paid  any  attention  to  Tom. 

Arrived  at  the  corner  where  the  sacristy,  newly 
built,  jutted  triangularly,  he  saw  Mrs.  Wedekind  on 
her  granddaughter's  arm.  She  made  a  hopeless,  flat 
gesture  of  finality  with  her  mittened  hand,  then  dis 
appeared  in  a  throng  of  peasant  women  in  shorts  skirts 
and  clumsy,  winged  bonnets,  Lorrainers  all,  talking  in 
a  mixture  of  French  and  German,  some  crying  as  if 
their  hearts  would  break. 

A  moment  later  Tom  was  by  Bertha's  side. 

"Walk  slow,"  he  whispered,  tucking  her  arm  in  his ; 
and  she  understood  without  asking  him  the  reason. 

For  the  streets  were  filled  with  soldiers,  privates  and 
non-coms  and  officers,  strolling  about  with  women  and 
girls  of  all  classes,  all  talking  in  tense,  hectic  under 
tones — like  a  last  flaring  of  passion,  a  last  calling  out 
of  a  man's  senses  to  a  woman's,  before  the  morrow,  the 
battle,  death. 

Tom,  clean  to  the  marrow,  sensitive,  felt  the  silent 
surging  of  emotions.  It  embarrassed  him.  The  more 
so  as  there  was  something  he  had  to  tell  Bertha,  some 
thing  of  which  he  had  thought  when,  back  in  the  Uhlan 
barracks,  he  had  packed  his  leather  case. 

And  he  did  not  know  how  to  put  it  into  words. 

She  noticed  his  silence  and  finally  she  asked  him 
what  was  the  matter. 

"Bertha,"  he  whispered,  "you  know  I  love  you  bet 
ter  than  all  the  world  .  .  ." 

"Tell  me  about  your  love  after  we're  safely  across 
the  frontier,"  came  her  mischievous  reply. 

"You  just  bet  I  will.  But  .  .  .  Say  .  .  .  For 
give  me  for  what  I'm  going  to  tell  you,  and  for  the 
love  o'  Mike  don't  misunderstand  me!" — and  he  told 
her  in  a  hushed,  halting  whisper  what  was  on  his  mind 


THE  BLUFF  325 

"Don't  you  see,  honey  ?"  he  wound  up.  "It's  the 
only  way.  Why — it's — the  thing,  the  one  thing  they 
wouldn't  suspect.  It  was  so  in  Berlin,  these  last  few 
days,  and — look!"  pointing  at  the  amorous  couples, 
some  disappearing  down  dark  alleys,  others  turning 
suddenly,  after  rapid  whispers,  into  houses.  "It's — 
safe!"  ' 

She  gave  a  little  choked  laugh. 

"Tom,  dear,"  she  said,  apropos  of  nothing  it  seemed 
to  him,  "I  know  German — gentlemen.  I  talked  to  lots, 
and  lots  talked  to  me,  and  I  am  so  very,  very  glad  that 
you  are  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"Just  Tom!  Just  plain,  clean,  square,  American 
Tom!  Come,"  as  he  was  going  to  branch  into  fur 
ther  explanations.  "I  know  exactly.  There's  the 
place  for  us — over  yonder!"  indicating  a  small,  drab, 
mean  hotel  not  far  from  the  Archbishop's  palace. 

Bravely  she  preceded  him  into  the  dirty  lobby. 
Bravely  she  overlooked  the  frowzy  desk  clerk's  leering 
\vords  of  greeting,  not  even  turning  her  head  when 
Tom  asked  for  a  room  and  was  given  the  key. 

"Is  there  a  back  entrance?"  the  Westerner  asked  the 
clerk.  "You  see  .  .  ."  he  halted,  stammering,  and  the 
clerk  continued  the  sentence  for  him : 

"I  understand,  PI  err  Leutnant.  A  jealous,  elderly 
husband,  nicht  wahr?" 

"Yes,  yes.  Where  is  the  back  entrance — exit,  rather 
— in  case  .  .  ." 

"To  the  left  from  your  room,  down  the  corridor, 
stairs  leading  into  the  side  street.  Thank  you,  Herr 
Leutnant!"  as  Tom  planked  down  a  ten-mark  piece, 
adding  another  for  tip.  "Shall  I  show  you  the  way?" 

"Never  mind,"  replied  the  American,  walking  up  an 
uncarpeted,  dusty  flight  of  stairs  to  the  room. 


326  LTHE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

There  he  gave  Bertha  another  string  of  whispered 
instructions — and  his  leather  bag. 

"I'll  wait  here,"  he  said. 

"But — my  hair?  I  got  some  manicure  scissors  in 
my  hand-bag.  I'll  cut  it  off !" 

"Don't  you  dare.  If  you  do  I'll  never  propose  to 
you  again — except,  perhaps,  three  times.  You  pile 
that  mane  of  yours  up  as  high  as  you  can.  The  rest'll 
be  O.  K.  They'll  think  you  some  little  shrimp  of  an 
Ensign  just  gazetted." 

"Tom!"  she  exclaimed  indignantly,  but  he  pushed 
her  inside  the  room  and  waited  in  the  corridor. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  came  to  him,  looking  for 
all  the  world  what  Tom  had  said  she  would,  like  a 
pitifully  young  Cadet  just  commissioned,  because  of 
the  stress  of  war.  She  had  put  on  the  extra  regimen 
tals  which  Tom  had  taken  along,  and  the  silver-gray 
cape  hid  her  from  her  neck  to  her  feet,  completely  cov 
ering  her  dress.  Her  tiny  shoes  were  drowning  in 
Tom's  riding-boots,  the  uhlanka  was  tilted  at  a  rakish, 
perilous  angle  across  her  smooth  forehead. 

"Hullo,  Puss  in  Boots!"  laughed  Tom;  then, 
gravely :  "Be  careful.  Don't  swing  your  feet  or  those 
fool  boots'll  drop  off.  Here,  take  my  arm!"  leading 
her  down  the  back  stairs  and  into  the  side  street  which, 
luckily,  was  pitch  black  and  deserted. 

Luck  continued  with  them.  They  met  few  people, 
and  these  mostly  frightened,  nervous  Lorraine  civil 
ians,  torn  between  fear  of  their  German  masters  and 
the  undying  hope  that  soon  again  the  gay  soldiers  of 
France  would  come  marching  and  singing  across  the 
frontier.  Due  west  they  proceeded,  as  Vyvyan  had 
told  Tom,  within  sight  of  the  fortifications,  where  they 
were  stopped  by  an  armed  sentry. 


THE  BLUFF  327 

Tom  pulled  out  his  regimental  papers  and  waved 
them  beneath  the  soldier's  snub  nose. 

"Was  f'dllt  Ihnen  denn  ein?"  he  snarled  in  his  best, 
most  explosive  German.  "Here — look  at  the  seal. 
Look  at  His  All-Gracious  Majesty's  signature,  you 
mutton  head!  Off  with  you!  Rechts  urn!  Kehrt!" 
And  the  sentry  was  so  flustered  that  he  forgot  com 
pletely  to  ask  for  the  password. 

The  whole  scene  was  typical  of  the  entire  German 
system.  Not  only  of  the  exaggerated  discipline,  ac 
companied  by  brutalities,  which  frightens  what  little 
original  common  sense  they  may  be  blessed  with  out 
of  the  heads  of  the  privates,  but  also  illustrative  of 
another  fact.  For  the  Germans  were  so  pleased  with 
their  own  spies,  many  of  them  fearless,  daring  men, 
and  with  the  results  obtained  that,  through  sheer,  con 
temptuous,  sneering  cocksureness,  they  frequently 
overlooked  the  possibility  that  the  Allied  nations,  too, 
might  have  clever  Secret  Service  men  in  their  employ. 

Later,  this  was  changed.  Later,  came  the  spy  hunts 
from  one  end  of  Germany  to  the  other,  came  acid  skin 
tests  on  the  frontier. 

But  this  was  the  second  day  of  war.  The  machine 
was  still  too  cocksure,  as  said  above,  too  stiff,  too 
creaking,  and  Tom,  side  by  side  with  Bertha,  tripping 
in  her  enormous  cavalry  boots,  stepped  away  from  the 
sentry  and  out  into  the  night. 

They  reached  the  Hohenzollernwarte  a  few  minutes 
later.  Vyvyan  \vas  there,  peering  into  the  dark,  and 
in  the  yet  darker  shadow  of  a  clump  of  beech  trees 
Tom  saw  the  dim  outline  of  a  rakish,  low-slung  racing 
car. 

The  Englishman  laughed  when  he  saw  Bertha. 

"My  word,"  he  said,  "you're  the  best-looking  little 


328  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Uhlan  I've  ever  seen.  You'll  pass  muster  all  right  in 
front  of  any  snooping  outpost." 

He  helped  Bertha  into  the  tonneau  and  jumped  into 
the  driver's  seat. 

"Come  on,  Tom!"  Then:  "My  God!  What  are 
you  .  .  .  What  is  ...  Quick !  Quick !" 

For,  simultaneous  with  his  first  word  to  the  West 
erner,  with  the  latter  about  to  step  into  the  car,  with 
his  own  hand  already  busy  with  the  starter,  there  had 
been  a  thunder  of  hooves,  cries,  the  rattle  of  sabers; 
and,  the  moon  just  then  breaking  through  the  clouds 
with  a  broad,  pitiless,  diamond-white  ray,  he  saw  three 
figures  on  horseback  charge  down  upon  them. 

Uhlans,  they  were.  One  was  an  officer  waving  a 
sword.  The  next  second  he  recognized  him :  Colonel 
Heinrich  Wedekind,  his  face  distorted  with  rage  and 
triumph.  The  other  two  were  privates,  their  long 
lances  leveled,  the  little  flags  on  them  fluttering  in  the 
wind. 

One  of  the  two  privates  was  a  few  feet  in  the  lead. 
His  horse  was  the  fastest.  He  spurred  it  on,  the 
lance  point  flickering  like  the  eye  of  some  malevolent 
beast  of  prey. 

It  had  all  happened  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell. 

"Quick !"  he  cried  again  to  Tom. 

But  it  was  too  late.  The  Uhlan  loomed  up  a  few 
feet  from  the  automobile.  His  lance  came  down,  as 
if  searching  for  blood  with  its  steely  point,  and,  at  that 
exact  moment,  Tom  sang  out : 

"Go  on !     Don't  wait  for  me !     Remember  Bertha !" 

Vyvyan  obeyed  instinctively.  He  shot  the  car  for 
ward  with  a  great  crash,  a  leaping  bound. 

Tom  had  thought,  figured,  measured,  and  acted  at 
the  same  fraction  of  a  second. 


THE  BLUFF  329 

Just  as  the  mounted  man  was  closing  in,  as  his  lance 
was  about  to  come  down  on  the  occupants  of  the  car, 
the  Westerner  had  ducked,  swerved  to  the  right, 
jumped  from  the  ground  like  a  cat,  and  caught  the 
frenzied,  galloping  horse  around  the  neck.  He  swung 
himself  up.  The  double  weight  acted  on  the  horse  like 
a  brake.  The  Uhlan  cursed.  But  his  long  lance  was 
useless  in  a  body-to-body  fight,  and  before  he  could 
reach  into  his  boot  for  his  carbine,  Tom  had  drawn  his 
revolver  and  shot  him  through  the  head. 

The  man  fell  sideways  out  of  the  saddle  and  to  the 
ground,  twirling  grotesquely,  and,  in  the  twinkling  of 
the  moment,  Tom  tore  the  lance  from  the  dying  man's 
grasp,  shifted  it  to  his  left  hand,  let  the  reins  drop 
loose,  relying  on  the  pressure  of  his  knees,  and  turned 
to  meet  the  shock  of  the  Colonel  and  the  other  private, 
revolver  in  his  right. 

He  shot  once,  and  missed.  The  others,  trained  cav 
alrymen,  changed  their  tactics.  They  deployed  to 
right  and  left,  shooting  as  they  galloped  past  the  Amer 
ican,  one  bullet  going  clear  through  Tom's  uhlanka — 
he  felt  it  singeing  his  hair — the  other  missing  him  by 
an  inch. 

They  brought  their  horses  to  a  stop,  turned,  and 
again  deployed  right  and  left.  But  this  time  Tom  was 
ready  for  them.  He  remembered  his  old  training. 
His  former  craft  came  back  to  him:  the  craft  of  the 
round-up ! 

As  they  came  on,  this  time  drawing  in  a  little  closer 
to  either  side  so  as  to  make  more  sure  of  their  aim, 
very  suddenly  he  turned  his  horse,  swerved  in  the  sad 
dle,  and  bent  low.  His  left  hand,  armed  with  the 
lance,  shot  out.  It  caught  the  Colonel  in  the  throat, 
killing  him  instantly,  while  the  revolver  in  his  right 


330  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

spoke  twice,  each  shot  hitting  the  mark.  The  private 
fell  out  of  the  saddle,  onto  the  ground.  He  lay  there, 
curled  up,  like  a  sleeping  dog. 

It  was  then,  with  the  three  men  dead  at  his  hands, 
that  a  great,  sad  reaction  came  upon  the  American. 
It  was  War!  Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  completely 
realized  the  grim  tragedy  of  it.  The  'killing  of  men ! 
The  spilling  of  blood ! 

His  lips  worked.    He  felt  nausea  rising  in  his  throat. 

But  he  controlled  himself. 

He  turned  his  horse  to  the  west.  Over  there  lay 
Verdun,  and  he  knew  the  road,  had  studied  it  in  War 
College.  There  had  been  a  special  course. 

Less  familiar  he  was  with  the  northern  road  that 
dipped  into  the  direct  Verdun  approach  twenty  miles 
beyond :  the  Thionville  road  where  the  feint  attack  of 
the  Germans  was  meant  to  give  the  Metz  army  corps 
a  chance  to  catch  the  French  defenders  napping. 

Well,  he  would  have  to  trust  Vyvyan  to  do  that  part. 
Vyvyan  and  Bertha — they  had  the  motor-car,  while 
he  was  a  man  on  horseback  .  .  . 

A  man  on  horseback — once  more!  Like  out  West, 
home,  on  the  range !  Riding  through  the  night,  with 
the  stars  and  the  moon  to  guide  him ! 

And  he  rode ! 

He  rode  as  he  had  never  ridden  before ! 


CHAPTER  XLV 

OVER  THE  BORDER 

THE  Jaganath  of  war  was  moving  its  wheels, 
sharply,  pitilessly.  On  it  rolled  towards  the  frontier 
(there  was  now  none  except  a  line  of  blood  where  men 
had  died)  and  crossing  it  near  Gravelotte,  pausing 
perhaps  for  the  breathless  fraction  of  a  second  to  pon 
der  on  that  other  battle  that,  there,  forty-four  years 
earlier,  had  seen  the  flower  of  the  French  cavalry 
slaughtered  by  the  overwhelming  cannons  of  the  Teu 
ton  invader. 

Tom  rode  in  the  wake  of  the  scouting  parties,  guided 
by  the  stars — "just  like  back  home,"  he  thought,  "when 
I  used  to  go  after  rimmed  cattle." 

The  ground  was  uneven,  broken  by  clumps  of  trees, 
then,  beyond  Gravelotte,  rising  in  layer  upon  layer  of 
ragged  rock,  again  dipping  into  valleys  and  bottom 
farms  that  had  been  deserted  by  the  peasants. 

"Sorry,  old  girl,"  he  said  to  the  mare,  as  he  spurred 
her  down  a  sharp  hillside,  "don't  mean  to  hurt  your 
feelings,  but  you  got  to  do  it!  Wow  there!" — and, 
forcing  the  horse  to  squat  on  its  hind  quarters  like  a 
dog,  he  made  it  slide  through  the  loose  sand  and  gravel 
in  a  sitting  posture,  pulling  the  mare  sharply  to  her  feet 
and  jerking  her  to  a  gallop,  without  waiting  for  breath, 
as  soon  as  level  ground  was  reached  again. 

He  grinned  to  himself.  "Well,"  he  said  in  the  gen 
eral  direction  of  the  evening  star,  "I've  seen  a  lot  of 

33i 


332  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

those  motion  picture   weekly   reviews.     But,   believe 
me,  that  Dago  cavalry  has  nothing  on  me !" 

On  he  galloped,  finding  water  for  himself  and  his 
mount  at  many  little  streams.  Every  half  hour  or  so 
he  stopped  for  a  short  rest.  For — to  quote  his  range 
philosophy — he  didn't  believe  in  waiting  till  the  horse 
was  worn.  He  said  that  horses  were  cussed  animals 
at  best,  and  the  only  way  to  ride  them  was  to  give  them 
a  few  minutes'  rest  before  they  had  a  chance  to  know 
that  they  were  tired. 

Once  a  narrow  wedge  of  light  shot  from  behind  a 
heap  of  stones,  and  his  mare  plunged  violently,  switch 
ing  her  flat,  docked  tail,  and  looking  nervously  side 
ways  to  escape  the  glare  of  the  light. 

The  cause  of  it,  even  as  Tom  was  drawing  a  bead 
to  shoot  at  the  flash,  was  revealed  a  second  later  when 
a  Bavarian  infantryman,  electric  pocket  lamp  in  his 
hand,  stepped  out  and  saluted.  He  had  recognized  the 
Uhlan  uniform,  and  it  did  not  even  need  Tom's  snarl 
ing  "Despatch  rider!"  to  cause  him  to  lower  his  rifle 
to  the  carry  and  step  back  again  into  the  shade  of  the 
stones,  switching  off  his  lamp. 

Occasionally,  riding  as  hard  as  horse  and  leather 
would  let  him,  he  met  long,  ghostly  lines  of  foot  sol 
diers  plodding  stolidly  through  the  star-flecked  night, 
field  kitchens  on  wheels,  and  motor  caravans  of  the 
Imperial  Service  Corps. 

But  he  was  hardly  noticed :  just  an  officer  of  Uhlans, 
dashing  into  the  night,  like  so  many  hundreds  of 
others. 

There  were  no  trenches,  no  miles  upon  miles  of 
barbed  wires  in  those  early  war  days  to  stop  his  prog 
ress,  and  he  rode,  rode ! 

Down  a  hill,  sliding!  Up  a  hill,  bent  over  the 
mare's  neck,  pulling  her  up  almost  bodily,  forcing  her  : 


OVER  THE  BORDER  333 

to  climb  like  a  cat!  Taking  a  fallen  tree  at  a  long, 
lean  jump!  Swerving  to  escape  the  shock  of  a  bat 
tery  that  came  suddenly  looking  out  of  the  dark! 
Slipping  down  the  gravel  bank  of  a  broad  stream,  spur 
ring  the  animal  to  breast  the  swirling  water,  till  his 
hands  were  raw  with  the  pulling  of  the  reins,  his 
knees  numbed  with  the  gripping  of  the  saddle. 

Suddenly  he  laughed. 

A  saddle!     A  silly,  light,  postage  stamp  saddle! 

And  he  dismounted,  he  loosened  the  girth,  he 
chucked  the  saddle  into  a  clump  of  bushes. 

He  patted  the  horse's  glistening,  sweat-studded  neck. 

"Now  we'll  do  some  real  riding!"  he  said,  and  he 
vaulted  up,  his  legs  dangling  like  an  Indian's,  his 
flesh  thrilling  to  the  touch  of  the  horse's  flesh. 

And  he  rode !     On ! 

Faint  from  the  distance,  the  direction  of  Verdun, 
boomed  a  steady,  dramatic  roar,  the  big  guns  slashing 
into  the  war  game.  A  splotch  of  whirling  white  shell 
stabbed  the  opaque  black  of  the  heavens.  And  on  he 
rode,  at  a  short  gallop,  as,  the  hills  coiling  higher,  the 
ground  became  broken  with  splintering,  treacherous 
stones.  He  could  not  see  them.  He  felt  them. 
Sensed  them.  He  was  bred  to  the  free  range,  the 
open. 

As  he  drew  nearer  the  supposed  lines  of  the  French, 
the  thought  came  to  him  that  the  French  outposts 
might  not  like  his  uniform,  that  they  might  shoot  on 
sight. 

"Holy  Moses!"  he  soliloquized.  "Cheerful  little 
prospect.  But,"  he  laughed  grimly,  "better  to  die  by 
a  French  bullet  than  be  strangled  to  death  by  the 
German  Web!  Git  up  there,  old  girl,"  as  the  mare 
shied  at  a  puddle  glistening  in  the  moonlight. 

Another  short  rest.     And  again  he  sent  the  horse 


334  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

to    a   long,    stretching   gallop,    on    and    on   and   on! 

The  lines  of  an  old  poem  came  back  to  him.  He 
had  been  made  by  his  father  to  learn  it  by  heart. 
Had  hated  it,  as  boys  will.  Yet  had  never  forgot 
ten  it. 

Now  here,  in  a  foreign  land,  riding  through  the 
night,  away  from  the  Germans,  on  to  the  French,  the 
truth  of  the  poet's  words  struck  him  with  an  almost 
physical  blow : 

"Up  from  the  South  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door, 
The  terrible  grumble  and  rumble  and  roar 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away." 

"Twenty  miles  away/'  murmured  Tom.  "But,  by 
Ginger,  we'll  make  it.  Git  up  there !" 

As  he  rode  on  he  met  with  no  more  German  outposts 
or  marching  columns,  since  the  skeleton  divisions  that 
were  making  the  feint  attack  from  Thionville  had  de 
ployed  to  the  north  while  the  Metz  divisions  that  were 
expected  to  smite  the  French  lines  in  front  of  Verdun 
with  a  sudden,  massed,  unexpected  blow,  were  still  far 
in  the  rear. 

Yet,  occasionally,  there  was  the  sharp,  thin  flash  and 
staccato  report  of  a  rifle,  hurriedly  fired  and  immedi 
ately  echoed  by  other  flashes  and  reports,  showing  that 
scouting  parties  of  the  opposing  armies  must  have 
come  into  contact  with  each  other. 

Once  the  terrible  hysteria  of  overstrained  nerves, 
of  overtaxed  waiting  and  expectancy  must  have  struck 
one  of  the  Metz  brigades,  for  quite  suddenly,  from  the 
east  one  of  their  field  batteries  belched  into  action, 
shooting  at  nothing  in  particular.  A  great  gun  gave 


OVER  THE  BORDER  335 

answer  in  the  distance.  There  was  a  melancholy  wail 
ing  of  falling  shells.  Tom's  horse  plunged,  swerved, 
nearly  fell,  but  his  hands  reached  out,  soothing,  strong. 

"Nothing  to  be  afraid  of,"  he  said.  "It's  all  right, 
old  girl.  Now,  then — look  out  for  that  tree,"  as,  the 
moon  hidden  by  an  inky  cloud  bank,  a  huge,  gnarled 
oak  sprang  from  the  darkness,  then  was  swallowed 
again  in  the  darkness  as,  obeying  Tom's  hand,  the  mare 
sidewheeled. 

"Bully  for  you,"  commended  Tom.  "A  little  less 
nervousness,  and  I'd  turn  you  into  a  range  pony." 

And  he  rode  on,  getting  the  utmost  speed  from  his 
horse,  for  another  thought  had  come  to  him.  Suppose 
something  happened  to  Vyvyan  and  the  girl?  Even 
so,  there  still  was  France,  and,  though  he  was  unfa 
miliar  with  the  Thionville  approach,  he  might  get  di 
rect  to  the  Verdun  lines  and  give  warning — in  case 
Vyvyan  failed. 

Suddenly,  thqugh  he  rode  for  his  life,  all  personal 
considerations  of  safety  whirled  away  and  disappeared 
like  rubbish  in  the  meeting  of  winds. 

Only  one  thing  mattered : 

The  French !     Verdun ! 

There  was  something  maniacal,  something  grimly 
fanatic  about  the  thought,  the  steely  resolution,  and, 
in  that  hour,  as  he  rode  through  the  night,  the  soul  of 
the  simple,  straight,  square  Westerner  rose  to  the 
height  of  greatness. 

On! 

The  horse  panted,  breathed  heavily,  staccato.  But 
something  of  the  man's  unconquerable  spirit  seemed 
to  flow  into  the  animal  consciousness.  It  was  tired. 
Tired  to  dropping.  Its  muscles  pained.  Its  lungs, 
tortured,  extended,  then  suddenly  contracted,  quivered 
as  the  motion  of  the  legs  pumped  the  air  through. 


336          LTHE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

But  the  mare  stretched  her  magnificent,  long  body. 
She  was  a  thoroughbred — like  the  man  who  rode  her. 

Again  a  burst  of  sound,  to  the  north  this  time, 
thundering  to  a  portentous,  smashing,  roaring  climax, 
and  just  for  a  moment  Tom  felt  something  clutch  at 
his  heart  with  clay-cold  fingers. 

Fear?     Yes! 

He  owned  up  to  it  like  the  brave  man  he  was,  and, 
just  because  he  owned  up  to  it,  an  immediate  reaction 
came  to  him  as  the  shots  plopped  far  out  into  the 
night,  finding  their  target  far  away;  and  he  said  to 
himself  that  there  was  no  danger. 

Yet,  a  few  minutes  later,  the  whistle,  the  shrieking, 
the  crack  and  clank,  enveloped  him  with  an  intolerable 
sense  of  loneliness,  of  insecurity,  of  stark  powerless- 
ness.  For  a  second,  that  was  like  an  eternity,  noth 
ing  seemed  to  matter  except  the  plomp  of  the  shells. 

It  seemed  the  end  of  the  world!  A  world  dying 
in  a  sea  of  hatred  and  lust  and  blood ! 

But,  whatever  the  fantastic  thoughts  in  his  subcon 
scious  self,  his  conscious  self  was  cool,  collected.  It 
communicated  the  warning  of  treacherous  ground,  of 
slippery  timber  fall,  of  turbulent  little  wayside  stream, 
of  crumbling  rock  slides,  to  his  brain,  the  nerve  center, 
and  the  nerve  center  sent  the  messages  on  to  eye  and 
hand  and  leg  ...  And  he  rode,  like  a  Centaur — 
on,  on,  away  from  the  Web! 

Then  silence,  but  for  the  thud  of  the  horse's  feet — 
silence  again  torn  by  the  rumble  of  distant  guns. 

Another  mile,  and  the  sun  rose  slowly,  with  haggard, 
indifferent,  chilly  rays,  immediately  shrouded  by  a 
thick  slab  of  mist. 

Here  and  there  a  tree  stood  out,  spectral,  lanky,  like 
a  sentinel  of  ill  omen.  Jhe  rumble  and  grumble  of 


OVER  THE  BORDER  337 

the  guns  drew  steadily  nearer.  Too,  the  short,  throaty, 
vicious  bark  of  mortars  with  a  wailing,  high-pitched 
screech  at  the  end,  and  the  deep,  fully  rounded  note 
of  howitzers.  Above  the  mist  sobbed  the  engine  of 
an  airplane,  doubtless  painted  with  the  black  and  white 
cross  of  Prussia.  It  was  absolutely  invisible.  Yet, 
somehow,  Tom  could  visualize  it — like  some  evil 
spirit,  infinitely  brutal,  infinitely  subtle. 

The  mare  gave  a  little,  pitiful  whinny.  It  was  as 
if  she  meant  to  say  to  the  rider : 

"I  can't.  I  can't.  You  have  ridden  the  heart  out 
of  me,  and  the  strength,  the  life !" 

Her  knees  gave  way,  but  Tom  pulled  her  up  with 
his  soft,  strong  hands.  The  animal's  labored,  sibilant 
breathing  sounded  terribly  distinct,  terribly  portentous. 

"Steady!"  he  murmured,  "steady,  you  beauty,"  as, 
nearly  throwing  him,  the  mare  danced  sideways,  fright 
ened  at  an  enormous  sheet  of  dazzling,  whitish  blue 
light  that  jumped  up  to  the  zenith,  then  dropped  to 
the  tortured  earth  with  a  million  yellow,  racing  flames. 

From  a  low,  hog-back  hill  rose  a  curled  plume  of 
thick,  inky  smoke  with  a  heart  of  sulphurous  gold. 
The  next  second,  an  artillery  salvo  belched  up,  stopped 
abruptly,  was  followed  by  an  immense  burst  of  sound 
waves  like  a  giant  beating  a  huge  drum.  The  western 
sky  swallowed  the  mist  in  an  intolerable,  peacock  blue, 
nicked  with  vivid  purple. 

Tom  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hands.  With  his 
sharp  eyes,  far  away,  he  could  see  a  flag — very  small  it 
seemed,  very  foolish.  But  .  .  . 

Yes!  He  could  not  make  out  the  colors.  But  the 
stripes  ran  vertically,  not  horizontally.  It  was  the 
flag  of  France! 

"Yip — yip — yip!"  his  voice  peaked  to  a  quivering, 
long-drawn  Indian  yell. 


338  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

Then,  to  his  horse : 

"Come  on!  Come  on,  you  beauty!  We're  there! 
We've  made  it!" 

The  mare  plunged  forward.  In  front  of  him, 
across  the  rim  of  a  cup-shaped  valley,  Tom  saw  a 
number  of  small  figures. 

The  French!  Doubtless  an  outpost,  or  a  scouting 
party.  They  came  up  on  level  ground.  They  stood 
erect,  bent  forward  purposefully.  One,  most  likely 
the  leader,  waved  his  arms. 

Again  Tom  yelled.  A  great  joy  surged  in  his  heart 
— and  then,  quite  suddenly,  it  seemed  as  if  a  giant  hand 
was  plucking  him  from  the  saddle  and  hurling  him 
through  the  air.  Then  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  sank 
into  a  cushion  of  air. 

For  a  fleeting  moment,  though  he  could  not  utter  a 
sound,  he  saw  quite  clearly.  He  saw  his  horse,  a  few 
feet  away,  rolling  on  its  back,  waving  its  legs  as  in  a 
pitiful  appeal  for  mercy  .  .  . 

The  whole  world  seemed  to  totter  crazily.  The 
morning  sun,  blazing  through  the  mist,  heaved  like  the 
bow  of  a  ship,  then  swung  to  and  fro  in  a  mad,  golden 
pendulum. 

He  felt  a  dull  jar. 

Consciousness  faded  out. 

When  Tom  came  to,  he  found  himself  in  a  large 
tent.  There  was  something  moist  and  cool  on  his 
forehead.  For  a  moment  he  lay  still.  Then  he 
opened  his  eyes,  and  he  saw  that  he  was  stretched  out 
on  a  hospital  cot  and  that,  sitting  by  his  side,  was 
Bertha. 

She  leaned  over  without  a  word  and  kissed  his  lips, 

"What— happened  .  .  .?" 


OVER  THE  BORDER  339 

"I'll  tell  you,"  came  the  voice  of  Vyvyan.  He  was 
standing  near  the  other  side  of  the  cot.  "You  fell 
in  with  a  French  outpost.  So  did  Miss  Wedekind  and 
I.  But  we  had  enough  sense  to  tie  our  handkerchiefs 
— fortunately  I  had  three — together  and  wave  it  like 
a  white  flag.  You  forgot  that  jolly  little  particular. 
They  saw  you  coming  on,  the  French  outpost,  just  as 
if  you  were  the  whole  bloomin'  Teuton  army  lusting 
for  blood  and  boodle.  They  saw  your  Prussian  uni 
form,  very  naturally  thought  you  one  of  the  Gott  Mit 
Uns,  and  one  of  them  fired  .  .  .  No !"  as  Tom  began 
gingerly  feeling  his  arms  and  legs.  "He  didn't  hit 
you.  Hit  your  mare,  though,  square  in  the  chest, 
and  you  did  a  remarkable  and  not  altogether  graceful 
somersault.  Fell  on  your  jolly  old  head." 

"I  guess  so.     It  throbs  terribly." 

Then,  suddenly  remembering,  he  went  on  in  a  tense, 
anxious  voice : 

"About  the  German  plans  —  the  attack  from 
Metz  .  .  ." 

"Everything's  as  right  as  rain,  old  chap.  Bertha 
and  I  got  here  in  plenty  of  time.  I  had  a  talk  with 
the  French  commander  after  I  convinced  him  that 
we  were  not  particularly  bold  Prussian  spies — by  the 
way,  you  and  I  are  both  due  for  the  War  Cross — and 
the  General  did  a  lot  of  rapid  figuring  and  switching 
and  ordering.  My  word,  the  Prussians  will  get  the 
merry  dooce  when  they  get  within  reach  of  the  guns. 
All  right,"  as  Tom  was  about  to  speak  again,  "I  am 
off.  I  s'pose  there  are  a  few  things  you'll  have  to 
talk  over  with  your — oh — nurse;"  and  he  left. 

There  came  a  long  silence,  broken  by  Bertha's: 

"We're  safe,  Tom.  Thanks  to  you.  As  soon  as 
we're  home,  you  and  I  ..." 


340  THE  MAN  ON  HORSEBACK 

She  blushed,  and  as  he  did  not  speak,  she  went  on 
with  a  little  laugh :  "Why,  Tom,  aren't  you  going  to 
propose  to  me?" 

He  sat  up  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"Sure  I  will.     But—" 

"There's  no  but.     Not  this  time,  Tom !" 

"There  may  be." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  sweetheart,  formerly,  when  I  proposed  to 
you  I  used  to  say :  'I  love  you.  Let's  get  married/  ' 

"That'll  be  plenty  this  time,  too." 

"Oh,  no,  it  won't,  for  this  time  I  am  going  to  say : 
Dearest,  I  first  saw  you,  I  first  loved  you,  back  home 
in  America,  out  on  the  Killicott,  when  I  was  a  plain 
American  horse  wrangler  and  rode  the  range.  I — 
well — got  sort  of  engaged  to  you  when  I  was  a  Ger 
man  for  the  time-being,  dressed  in  the  blue  and  crim 
son  of  the  Uhlans  of  the  Guard.  And  now,  honey, 
will  you  marry — a  soldier  of  France?  That's,  if 
they'll  have  me?" 

And  her  reply  was  sturdily,  uncompromisingly 
Western  American : 

"You  just  bet  I'll  marry  you,  Tom.  You  just  bet 
I'll  be  the  wife  of  a  soldier  of  France.  And  you 
just  bet  those  Frenchmen  will  be  tickled  to  death  to 
get  you.  If  they  aren't — /  shall  talk  to  them!" 

Then  she  kissed  him. 


THE   END 


• 


f 4  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


!8War'59RB 


~ 


MAR  4    1959 


YB 


